


Death, Love, and Sleep

by Icecubey, litra



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Bottom Dean, Gratutious references to Japanese Literature, Implied Switching, M/M, Minor Character Death, Supernatural Reverse Big Bang Challenge 2014, Top Castiel, casefic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-01-29
Packaged: 2018-03-09 13:30:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 42,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3251531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Icecubey/pseuds/Icecubey, https://archiveofourown.org/users/litra/pseuds/litra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel has been Lord of the Farlands for two years when people living on his estate begin to die inexplicably.  Just when he is growing truly desperate, help arrives in the form of the infamous Winchester brothers.  As the death toll continues to rise, Castiel is forced to pin all of his hopes on the Hunters while attempting to quell his growing feelings for Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Art for Death, Love, and Sleep](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3250187) by [litra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/litra/pseuds/litra). 



> I think I'm shell-shocked that this is finally complete! Gratuitous thanks to my co-captain in this years SPN RBB, litra. Be sure to give kudos to her lovely art!
> 
> Additional thanks to my bae Fish for helping me beta this labor of love.
> 
> A note about setting: My artist wanted to craft a story based in Japan; we compromised and crafted a world that is very heavily inspired by Heian/Kamakura Japan, but exists as its own entity. It would have been too jarring for me to place a bunch of Caucasian characters in Japan, so I tried to do the next best thing. Thanks for being open, Litra :)
> 
> Thanks for reading, and enjoy.

Dean clutched Castiel’s prone form to his chest, his arm secured around the lord’s middle; his other arm was held raised across his face, attempting to dull the fumes of burning poppy with his sleeve. His eyes watered dangerously.

They had known the Headhunter was only one prong of the proverbial pitchfork; he would not have laid money on a possession being the other one. Gods bless Sam and his proclivity for musty books for realizing, possibly too late, that the match point of the scourge killing off the compound’s inhabitants was sleeping only moments away.

A half-formed thought of _move it, Sam_ meandered across his consciousness even as he felt himself slumping over Castiel’s body. The invisible fumes of funeral incense and opiate forced him to shut his eyes and with his hands full he could not so much as wave his sword at the invisible specter, for all the good it would do; the spirit would not fall to a piece of steel, no matter how sharp.

With the thought of the end being really fucking nigh, Dean took a deep breath through his sleeve – his throat burned with the effort – and folded over Castiel. He braced his arm across the other man’s face, pressing his own into the stiff collar of his pale tunic. The effects of the poisonous air were only slightly abated, and he felt his cognizance flicker. Sam was either about to save their hides or prepare two more funeral plots in the quickly-crowding grounds’ cemetery.

Asphyxiation narrowed his senses down until Castiel’s shallow breaths gusted loud in his ears. His arm tightened even as he felt muscle control slipping. His thoughts unraveled. That was probably to blame for him abandoning caution and opening his mouth to mumble into Castiel’s slow pulse.

“Live you son of a bitch - I haven’t had my fill of you yet.”


	2. Monster

Castiel nodded stiffly as the ministers arranged before him all bowed uniformly against the straw mat floor. Now that spring was simmering down and the lands were in full blossom, meetings like this were becoming more necessary. With so many interests to balance, Castiel didn’t have the luxury of going more than a week without hearing a new report or grievance from one regional minister or another.

It was ironic that the worst of his nemeses lived here in this very compound. While he’d managed to forge strong loyalties with the distant farmers and workmen, his efforts seemed to sour the men sharing his roofs. Apparently they were used to more luxury, but Castiel had greatly reduced the tithes brought in from his lands in exchange for a happier population. Anna had always told him his business sense would ultimately get him in trouble.

He allowed Samandriel to approach and take his fans from him, followed by his heavy embroidered cloak. The pomp and circumstance would have been less frustrating if the frequency of meetings hadn’t been approaching tedium.

“Thank you. I had hoped I could retire now.” Though his moments of rest should be entirely at his disposal, Castiel knew better than to think he had any real measure of control when weasels like Zachariah were still prowling the Great Hall.

“Naturally, my lord.” Samandriel ignored his obvious lack of confidence, rising to his feet fluidly. Castiel followed him to his feet and shuffled after his pageboy – the son of a High Court minister sent out to serve his posting in “the farlands.” It was easier to not think of how puny and inconsequential the distant Warlord and his council found Castiel’s modest territory.

Samandriel slid the closest screen open to let them out of the meeting hall, intending to lead Castiel toward the back of the Great Hall and out across the common grounds to his lodgings in the North Wing. It was not coincidental that the lord’s quarters and personal rooms were separated from the majority of the grounds by the central Great Hall – Castiel was beginning to appreciate his predecessor’s decision to put the large, usually-empty building between himself and his uppity councilmen.

Rachel was poised in the hallway with her head bowed at their presence. She took the cloak and fans from Samandriel, and Castiel greeted her quietly as not to arouse any attention from the councilmen in the hallway around the corner. He was fond of Rachel – she offered good stirring conversation when he had moments of peace, and he found her more supportive than most of the men who were meant to offer him counsel.

He let out a breath when it seemed that he’d be allowed to greet the rest of the night in peace.

“My lord, a word.”

Castiel felt he deserved praise for the way he did not let his shoulders slump.

“Yes, Ephraim?”

The younger councilmen always had an expression that suggested he had cast judgment on everyone around him. Castiel suspected Zachariah had taken him under his wing.

“On the matter of our... apparent infestation.”

Castiel stilled.

He’d made every effort to solve the mystery of the mounting number of deaths around the compound, gruesome and perplexing in equal measure, but all he had to show for it was a higher body count. Abner, whom he’d appointed to find the source of the more grizzly deaths, had been discovered on the edge of the cemetery that morning, a path of entrails and reddened dirt leading away from his headless body.

“My lord, this cannot persist. You are losing staff by the day – I wouldn’t want to think that word of such incompetence could reach higher ears.”

If Castiel was more prone to violence, he might have suggested offering up Ephraim as the murderer’s next victim for his thinly veiled insult. As it was, he liked to think that the young and bright-eyed government student he used to know was still there underneath Zachariah’s hooks.

“I have not forgotten our problem, Ephraim, I assure you. I will appoint a new warrior to take up the search for the killer.” Everyone, Castiel included, knew that they were dealing with likely more than a serial killer, but he could not let the word ‘monster’ be heard from his mouth lest the council have another mount for criticism.

Ephraim’s eyes narrowed, and Castiel felt himself slump internally as he prepared for another bout of censure.

“I believe that is wise my lord. Do make sure you take one to guard you tonight.”

Castiel nodded as Ephraim bowed to him and then backed away before turning his back. It was odd that he had not insisted on the matter further, but Castiel wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

He turned to Rachel who did not hide her disdain as she watched Ephraim retreat from her periphery. Castiel grinned and ducked so he could catch her eye, assured that no one would be there to see his lack of decorum but Samandriel.

“Are the baths hot?”

Rachel nodded with a fond smile and gestured toward the North Wing.

化物

Castiel’s sleep quarters were situated in the back of the North Wing with two exposed walls, one of which opened to his private courtyard. With the recent danger, the doors that admitted him to the patio and yard had been sealed and barred with both sturdy locks and wards. The only doors left useable led to the hallway outside his room where two men stood guard. Still, Castiel slept with a sword now.

He had retired three hours ago, having no difficulty in finding sleep as soon as his head found his pillow. It was not common for him to have trouble sleeping, so he was on edge the moment his eyes slid open to his dark bedroom.

At first he did not move, taking in the blurry ceiling tiles, painted with opulent golden brush strokes depicting cranes in flight. He strained his hearing for any sign of the disturbance that had woken him, but the only apparent noise was the rhythmic trickle and _plunk_ of the fountain in the courtyard. It seemed there was a draft settled over the room but that was hardly unusual in early spring, and he could smell what was likely the distant fire at the front of the compound, near the guard station.

After a few seconds he was content to blame his untimely awakening on stress and resolved to roll over and count shrikes until he could fall back to sleep.

A strange dragging noise startled him out of his reverie.

Instinct kept him from shifting in his bed. Carefully he craned his head toward the noise whispering through the sealed doors. The wall panels were sturdy but not terribly thick; it might take more than a few hacks of a sword to break down the stationary wall panels, but sound easily permeated the glass and paper window inlays across the upper wall.

For a moment there was nothing. He was acutely aware of the silence in the hallway – had the guards not heard the same sound as he? Were they awake? He could not call for them for fear that whatever was moving outside would be alerted of his presence if it wasn’t already. The corners of the room seemed darker than normal and it occurred to him that the chill in the room was more reminiscent of the first snow than the first rain.

Before he could heavily consider that the potential threat was inside his room, the noise came again, steadier. What sounded like heavy plodding footsteps broke the steady scrape of something of modest mass being pulled across the wooden walkway running alongside the exposed walls. It seemed like it might be around the corner from the courtyard doors and slowly Castiel rolled onto his stomach so he could lift his face forward to face the courtyard windows comfortably.

The glass was marbled, the paper opaque, so the only way to obtain a clear view of the outdoors was to open the doors themselves. Still, what broke the tense silence made Castiel’s blood run cold.

A huge hulking form lumbered into view at the corner of the wall, head and shoulders casting a dark shadow across the windows. It moved slowly and although Castiel couldn’t see anything below its apparent shoulder span, he could hear the dragging item more clearly now, sure that it was being pulled by the monster.

This could be no man – there were no giants accounted for across his lands, and certainly not here on his fortress grounds. Whatever was outside his door was not human and he realized he was holding his breath when his chest began to ache. He breathed shallowly as the figure moved from the corner across the wall in the direction of the front of the compound. How it had found its way into Castiel’s area of the grounds was a mystery to him, but the fact that it could have bypassed his staff any number of ways at this time of night sent a chill up his spine.

He breathed shallowly, eyes trained on the figure as it retreated, seemingly unaware of Castiel. He knew that the moment it had cleared his room and the next that he should move quietly to the hall and alert his guards – whatever it was, it was surely not peaceful and any number of people could be in danger.

The smell of burning herbs had intensified and he felt a rattling breath of terror force its way from his mouth. The night guards would never see it coming, trained to expect threats from _outside_.

Spurred by terror, Castiel stumbled from his bed and to his door, willing his shaking hands to cooperate as he pushed the door open. The sword grabbed hastily from his bedside offered him little comfort.

The hall was empty save for the guard propped up against his door, dozing. Castiel shook him but without much thought left him before he could fully wake; he crept toward the side hall that led to a proper exit to outside, set at the mouth of his private yard. He approached it slowly, shuddering breaths as quiet as he could make them as he attempted to listen for the dragging, the heavy footfalls, but there was nothing. Perhaps the creature had already passed.

In a fit of insanity, he inched the door open, and peered out. He couldn’t see much, but the sliver visible through the opening was by all appearances normal. Moonlight lit the ground and shrubs and he opened it another inch even as he heard his guard approaching him from behind.

Then he looked down and could not staunch his gasp quickly enough.

Blood and viscera pooled in strokes on the wood walkway, illuminated sickly by the moon.

化物

The lands of the Lord’s estate rested at the crest of a plodding incline from the south. From miles away, the point of the guard station’s roof was visible to the naked eye. For this reason, it made the fortress particularly defensible from the front and no visitor had any hope of sneaking onto the grounds.

Castiel worried his bottom lip as he rested against the support beam at one corner of the lookout, eyes scanning the flat, green horizon for any sign of movement. As much as he hoped to not incite panic amongst the residents, it was impossible to quell his anxiety when the death toll was nearing double digits with no sign of slowing. Accordingly, he’d had no choice but to turn outside of his staff for help, calling on priests and shamans from across the land. Many people in the compound “knew” of one learned monk or another, but with the distance news travelled to reach them he’d be a fool to take any of it as absolute truth.

Already men and women alike had come to the compound to fix his blight – for a fee. Two of them were dead now, and suddenly no one was very interested in claiming the glory afforded to the one who could kill the Maneater. His only hope now was the vague missive they had received a week prior. On a simple scroll of paper, almost certainly repurposed from the back of a posted flyer, the note had read _Help is coming – one week._

Castiel had no way of knowing if the note was real, if someone from afar had heard about the monster and sent help. For all he knew, it was a prank from disgruntled laborers who imagined Castiel a spoiled government official who deserved his just desserts.

The note had arrived a week ago today, and Castiel could not talk himself out of loitering in the guard tower to wait for a sign of his would-be savior.

“My lord, there.”

He looked up sharply, squinting against the sun and there – on the path still some ways out – were two people. From here he could make out no details, nor the identity of the travelers, save for the fact that they were on horseback. If they kept their pace, they would reach the gates within the half hour.

Castiel hurried to the ladder that led down into the guards’ office.

“Fetch me and let them in when they arrive.”

化物

South country had exactly two things going for it: convenient ports to the Red Empire and Gee, hence good import markets, and the weakened reach of the capital. He’d spent relatively little time in the Farlands in his nearly decade long career hunting, and after spending the past handful of months trawling the flat and humid landscape, he was less than impressed. The easily renewed whiskey in his flask from across the seas was about the only thing keeping him from turning Impala and Loki northward, Sam’s complaints be damned.

They’d been making a routine tavern stop after a successful curse cleansing outside the port citadel of Lord Malachi’s territory when word reached them of a rash of murders even farther south. The lord of the territory was practically playing host to a serial killer and was at the end of his rope. Evidently, “many great warriors” had attempted to fell the perpetrator, with no success.

If Dean had a cent for every “great warrior” he’d met, he would already be reclining in his seaside villa with a staff populated by only gorgeous men and women.

They’d sent the lord’s messenger back to the estate with their promise of appearance within the week, and had spent the night at their leisure.

Now, plodding slowly in an effort to conserve the horses’ strength against the humidity and heat, they could make out the gate of the compound after their first sighting of the estate nearly an hour prior. The incline leading up to the grounds was slight until the final stretch, climbing up above the green pastures tended by farmhands. They’d passed a proper farmstead replete with hogs and chickens further to the east of the lord’s grounds, hunched figures tending what were probably rice fields.

Dean eyed the forest that seemed to spring up west of the hill’s crest and creep north.

“If it’s a creature, my money’s on it nesting in there.” Sam’s voice broke through Dean’s heat-induced daze, drawing his attention back to his riding partner.

With a huff, Dean said, “No bet.”

From this distance it was possible to make out the movement in the guard tower, and Dean glanced away to his brother. “So you heard anything about this guy? He gonna be a piece of work?”

Sam shrugged, reaching up to remove his wide brimmed hat in preparation of their arrival. “I don’t know much about him. His name is Castiel and he was appointed to this lordship less than two years ago by the Warlord. He’s a cousin somewhere down the bloodlines, but they must not like him to have sent him here.”

Dean snorted at the man’s name; it reeked of high-class and inbreeding. “Poor sucker, they probably hate him.”

“I don’t think he’s married. I don’t know much more than that though; people didn’t seem to have much to say about him other than that tithes had been lower since he’d been stationed.”

Their approach was halted as a man wearing a heavy crested coat and thonged running sandals hurried down the remaining distance from the gate to meet them. The horses startled as he came to an abrupt stop before them, and Dean reached down to pat Impala’s neck so she wouldn’t trample the man for his rude approach.

“Good sirs, are you here about the murders?” There was sweat on the man’s brow and his hair was matted where it had escaped his topknot but he did not wheeze or pant.

“That’s us. Hear you got yourself a monster.”

The man glanced nervously between them, clearly expecting a much blander greeting.

“So it would seem, good sirs. So as to make formal introductions, you are...?”

Sam cut in before Dean could fluster the poor attendant any further. “I’m Sam Winchester, and that’s my brother Dean. Will we be meeting the Lord of the Farlands?”

Bowing low, the man spoke to the ground. “Yes, presently. Please follow me.”

Sharing an amused glance with his brother, Dean gently nudged Impala’s side to bring her back to a slow walk behind the jogging attendant. By the time they’d reached the gate, they were opened wide enough to admit the party, and a modest entourage stood waiting for them. Dean had barely a moment to take in his surroundings before two people were approaching to attend to Impala and Loki. Under better conditions, he would have insisted on stabling his horse himself, but she was clearly in need of watering and it wasn’t worth making her wait. He leaned in, stroking her sides and down her muzzle. He muttered a _there, baby_ before the smiling stable-hand led her after Loki.

The attendant who’d met them cleared his throat and Sam gathered beside him; Dean made no attempt to hide his amusement. When the man’s postured suddenly went rigid, Dean turned his gaze up to the main square of the compound. There was a large pit and kindling for a fire that was probably lit and maintained nightly, and beyond that a large hall, bigger than the buildings flanking it.

From it approached two men, and by his more regal dress, Dean could tell that the man on the left was the lord they’d come to meet. At first glance he was unremarkable, and even a bit unorthodox; his hair was short, not combed neatly and his jaw was dark with shadow that should have been attended to already. He held himself with the import of a man of his office, but it almost looked like a masquerade, like someone had asked a rumpled archivist to play lord.

The greeter hurried to intercept them, whispering something to the formally dressed man.

As the pair moved closer, Dean was struck by the man’s eyes. Now he could make out the startling shade of blue, something he’d never seen in his many travels, and the angles of the lord’s face were softer than his first impression. Even the stubble took on a becoming note.

He was anything but difficult to look at.

Sam bowing in his peripheral jolted him from his stupor, and he inclined forward the minimum amount before standing back upright, the deference feeling false. He bowed for no one if he could help it.

“Sam and Dean Winchester, I have anxiously awaited your arrival. Thank you for heeding my call, even from so far away. I am Castiel, Lord of these lands and head of this estate. Everything we have is at your disposal if it may help you in ridding us of our blight.”

Dean frowned as Castiel inclined forward, glancing at Sam. The man was odd, though it was difficult to pinpoint how; he spoke in the proper formal tongue, but somehow it did not feel formal enough, and he did not have the austere airs of other government officials they’d dealt with in the past. Although the speech was obviously prepared, it felt almost humble.

Sam saved him from coming up with a good reply while he was thoroughly distracted by the strange equation presented by this Castiel.

“I’m Sam, and this is Dean. We’re pleased to be of your service my lord. We received only minimal details of your problem out at the roadhouse. Is there more you can share?”

Castiel nodded, though he held up a hand. “Please, you are not men of my lands and in this moment I am servant to you. Call me Castiel.”

Dean couldn’t help his incredulous expression, glancing between Castiel and Sam, looking to the remaining entourage for signs of upset. They all seemed placid, like his response was not a shock.

Too late he realized Castiel was looking at him now, squinting in what appeared to be close dissection. Dean bristled under the attention.

Smoothing over his embarrassment, he groused “There any chance we could get out of the heat before you give us the whole story. We’ve been stewing in our own juices for hours to get here.”

Rather than affronted, Castiel looked startled and turned to the man who had accompanied him, clearly younger – likely his pageboy. “The hall is prepared?”

The young man inclined his head and murmured the affirmative; then Castiel gestured for them to follow him.

“Absolutely, please do not hesitate to ask. I will have tea and ale brought to us in the North Wing where we can speak more comfortably.”

Dean couldn’t help but perk at the mention of alcohol. He ignored Sam’s irritated side-eye. “My kind of guy.”

Castiel looked confused for a moment, glancing between them; Dean did not miss the slight flush in his cheeks, sure it hadn’t been there before. Then he was turning away to lead them forward.

He took a step to follow and felt Sam jab him in the side, and he flinched away with a snort.

化物

The North Wing was a pompously sized building taking up the back of the compound. It featured a miniature version of the meeting chambers of the Great Hall, as well private rooms along its west wall and the servant and bath chambers at the north.

Castiel had arranged for the room beside his to be prepared for Sam and Dean the moment they’d introduced themselves. Now, he sat without the typical pageantry of meeting with visitors. Across the low table from him two places were set for the brothers to join him. The nature of the problem made him desperate for as hushed a discussion as possible, and so he had asked for only his most trusted staff to be present. At the corner, Meg knelt preparing an assortment of tea, ale, and snacks while Samandriel sat at his side.

Before he could grow impatient, the door at his right slid open, and he did his best to mask his frown at the face on the other side. Naomi stepped into the room and lowered to her knees in the stiff but fluid comportment of someone who’d served many officials before him. Naomi had staunchly disapproved of him from the moment he’d taken office, finding him too soft, too radical for her expectations of a feudal lord.

“My lord, your guests Sam and Dean Winchester.” She inclined her head towards the floor and he could see her glib expression.

“Yes of course, please sit. Can we provide you refreshment?” Castiel gestured to Meg, who was already kneeling beside the table with her tray. He caught her eye for a second and she flashed him her usual smug smile.

Sam said, “Tea would be great, thanks.”

The taller Winchester seemed guileless by first impression, and his open smile now seemed to suggest that he had not caught on to the grim state of affairs around the estate. Castiel didn’t know whether or not to find this comforting.

Dean scoffed as he took his place across from Castiel, taking the taller steel goblet of ale. “I have a feeling I’m gonna need this after we hear your story.”

Castiel squinted at him; certainly such a roguish attitude on a journeyman was not odd, but Dean seemed completely unconcerned with showing Castiel even a modest sense of decorum.

Sam must have agreed, because he spoke before Castiel. “That’s a good place to start. It would help us if you could tell us everything that’s happened since the first death, any detail even if you think it’s insignificant.”

And so Castiel recounted the grueling weeks passed, starting with the bloody discovery of a stable boy behind the bathhouses nearly two months prior. He spared no expense in the vivid descriptions of each death, despite Samandriel’s flinching in his periphery. He told them about Muriel and two other servants dying in their sleep within two weeks of each other after contracting a malignant sickness that no doctor or monk could explain. He listed each name with sad reverence, explaining their positions relative to the workings of the estate and when they had died.

He could see Naomi’s stony expression flicker as he detailed each tragedy, particularly at the mention of Muriel and April’s deaths. She had never made it secret that she disapproved of his friendships with the servants, especially those in her charge. She seemed to have no censure about sleeping with them, but actual relationships were out of the question, much to his bafflement. _This is how it is done, how it has always been done, my lord_ she had said to him during one of her thinly veiled lectures.

Tallying his estate’s losses left him with a heavy weight on his chest, and his deeply drawn breath was his only indication that he had finished.   He looked up from his tea, expecting to see shared sympathy on the brother’s faces, but was perplexed to find Sam looking confused and thoughtful; Dean seemed skeptical.

Sam leaned in and said, “And the most recent death was another beheading?”

Castiel tilted his head, frowning. “Not... exactly. I was the first to discover evidence of the murder but we didn’t find a body. All we know is that Gadreel is missing and there is no evidence that he left the compound.”

Dean tapped the table. “You say you found a trail of blood and heard dragging noises, and saw a huge man.”

“I never said it was a man.”

Dean deadpanned at him over his ale. “Right. Where’d the blood trail lead?”

Castiel bristled, shifting in his seat. Meg pushed a fresh cup of tea in front of him and he glanced at her gratefully. “It carried on some ways toward the front but eventually the blood stopped behind the food stores.”

Sam asked, “No one is watching that area at night?”

“No. Our food has never been under threat before.”

Sam nodded thoughtfully, looking to his brother. “I see. What do you think?”

Dean pursed his lips in thought, but he seemed unimpressed; he struck Castiel as very cavalier for someone investigating the deaths of 9 people in two months. “It doesn’t add up. What kills people in its sleep one night and then hauls off heads the next?”

Castiel held his tea cup between his palms, willing some of the warmth to combat the chill in his spine.

Whispers of the Winchester brothers had reached Castiel’s lands long before the killing spree. Little was known about the men individually, but everyone seemed confident in the tales of their monster hunting. Unlike the other stories traded across taverns and inns, no one doubted the validity of the Winchesters’ notoriety. It put Castiel’s stomach in knots to think that even these two lauded hunters had never come across the blight on his grounds.

“Whatever it is, it’s acting like a Headhunter at least half the time it shows up.”

“A Headhunter?”

Sam nodded. “There’s a monster that fits what you described from two weeks ago, called a Headhunter. It eats human heads, and usually leaves the body behind. They’re huge but not bulky like an Oni. One could probably scale the walls around your compound, which would explain why no one’s caught it yet.”

Castiel’s brow furrowed. “But if that’s what it is, why are you uncertain?”

“Headhunters are like animals, they eat human brains for sustenance. They have no need, or even capability that I’ve ever heard of, to spread disease and then leave the bodies behind,” Sam explained.

“So it’s not a Headhunter.”

Sam looked unsure as he glanced at his brother, who now seemed shrewd with more speculation at their disposal. “If it is, then it ain’t like the ones we’ve ganked before. We’re not sayin’ it is, or isn’t, but if it is then there’s only one sure way to draw it out.”

Castiel leaned forward, and he could see Naomi squint disapprovingly in their direction; he ignored her. “How?”

Dean leaned in, his grin conspiratorial. “Got any hogs up for slaughtering?”

化物

Dean leaned in the open doorway that faced out into Castiel’s courtyard. A privacy screen blocking off the shined hardwood walkway had been placed between the door to their makeshift bedroom and Castiel’s own bedroom, but he saw very little point to it; according to Castiel, the door to his room had been sealed and warded after the third death.

The courtyard had obviously been fashioned as a sanctuary for the lord of the compound, replete with one of the few trees growing on the grounds and a small reflecting pool beneath. He imagined that at the right angle it might reflect the moon, perfect for lovers and secret trysts. But then, the whole day with Castiel gave him the impression that the lord might be bumbling and awkward if caught in such a moment.

The compound was surrounded in high wooden walls, reaching the secure height of at least two men. Castiel’s hideaway had a second privacy fence of uneven bamboo thatched together by twine and something green – maybe young bamboo stripped thin – to create a surprising sense of intimacy. It was likely that there was a passage between the two fences, just wide enough for a person to move around the lord’s quarters without disrupting him. Really, it was so laughably easy to sneak around the estate that Dean wondered why the entire staff thought differently.

Still, for the Headhunter to have turned the corner from the back of the building into Castiel’s private courtyard meant it had been prowling the walkway behind the building when the missing guard – Gadreel, they’d called him – must have gone to investigate. At the very least, it proved the thing could hop the small walls and privacy gates surrounding the North Wing, and very likely the outer walls of the estate.

With so many apparent points of entry for the monster to take advantage of, some baiting tactics would be necessary for them to have hope of catching the monster in the enclosed space of the compound. As risky as it was to attract the Headhunter around people (and Dean trusted every single person here to be stupid and put themselves in harm’s way at the worst of moments), it would be easier to fell it in the fenced in space than out in the open where it could flee in any direction with greater ease.

The lore that Dean had collected over the years, by in large with Sam’s help and preference for scholarly endeavors, along with their own encounters with other Headhunters all pointed to a regular but staggered eating schedule. The species was large, hulking just as Castiel had described, with a lean form ideal for running and climbing. Their arms were out of proportion with the rest of them, long and chorded with enough muscle to sever the tendons and spinal column of its victims’ necks. Almost comically, their heads looked too small for their bodies, perhaps an ironic explanation for why their only sustenance was the body part in which they were most lacking. The crown of their skulls was strangely concave, like the bone sank in where there was not enough brain to support its shape. To complete the hideous spectacle, their mouths stretched the full length of their faces, crowded with small but innumerable teeth.

On his second hunt for one such monster, Dean had discovered their susceptibility to pigs. While they clearly did not satisfy the monsters’ appetites the way a human being would, the blood and scent of a hog was enough to draw the beast out and tempt them into a meal. This would be their strategy for getting the beast where they wanted it tomorrow night.

“I trust you find your accommodations satisfactory?”

Dean looked to his left to find Castiel standing at the mouth of the courtyard, just inside the privacy gate. He seemed earnest, if not apprehensive of encountering Dean alone.

“Nice digs, can’t complain _your majesty._ ” Dean could not resist the exaggerated, sweeping bow.

Castiel flinched, and it was obviously covering his desire to answer Dean’s sarcasm. Well, good, let him experience a lack of kowtowing for once.

“Please just call me Castiel. For the length of your stay, you are master and I am here to serve you in whatever means you require.”

Dean frowned, surveying the other man openly. To say that Castiel defied his expectation of someone of his station was not entirely a lie. In the many hours since they’d arrived, Castiel was arguably the least arrogant man they’d spoken to. To the contrary, his Minister of the Left – something with a Z? – was a bad piece of work.

Without acknowledging the way Castiel squirmed under scrutiny, Dean said, “When your guard disappeared last week, you said you looked out that door there and saw blood. Then the trail lead into the dirt and then disappeared?”

Castiel moved closer, looking to the hall door he’d peaked out of when he’d seen the Headhunter through his windows. “Yes. It stopped in the dirt.”

Dean’s eyes traced the path Castiel gestured to and his eyes traveled up the bamboo fence. It was dark now, and any sleuthing would be an exercise in frustration, but he’d bet his last flask of whiskey that there would be blood splatter across the upper reaches of one if not both fences where the Headhunter had leapt over with Gadreel’s body in tow.

Dean looked back to his host. “You waited a long time before sending out word of the monster. We sent that message as soon as we met your messenger at the tavern in the low country. How many people were dead by then? Six, seven?”

Castiel looked ashen, and the shame on his face was obvious; it gave Dean pause. He’d expected the man to be defensive. “Eight. One of the girls who served Metatron fell to the sleeping sickness in the week before you arrived.” He stared hard at the reflecting pool, like he was collecting himself. Then he jerked into motion as he approached the water and knelt down before it. Tiny koi listed near the surface and perked toward Castiel when he held a hand to the water’s surface.

“What has happened – I take responsibility. I am lord of this land, this estate and if no man can be blamed, then I am culpable. I did not act soon enough – if I had, maybe I would not have knelt to so many grieving mothers in the last month.”

Without the man looking at him, Dean didn’t hide his surprised face. Illuminated by the glow of the room behind him and the streaks of the moon that penetrated the private space, Castiel looked otherworldly, a sad soul penned by an aching poet. From his vantage point, Castiel’s face was obscured but Dean didn’t need to see him to know his expression must have been pained. And why not? It was easy to believe that Castiel could only entrust his insecurities to his fish and an empty courtyard.

“We’re here to make sure you won’t have to again.” Dean’s voice gentled, almost without his permission, and Castiel looked up at him.

Where the moon cut across his face, his skin glowed like quick silver. “Please don’t make a promise you cannot keep.”

Before Dean could argue, the high pitched shout of a young woman had them looking at the hall door. Dean was already leaning to open it, but then another woman’s voice, lower, cut in and it was obvious that the source of commotion was not the Headhunter.

Castiel joined him on the walkway as they tried to listen to the words through the wood.

“... ease don’t, I need—“

“This is shameful. An unwed servant girl. I could only hope it would be Lord Castiel’s but..”

Dean glanced at Castiel, muttering, “Dude why does she want her girls to bang you?”

Castiel shushed him with a hand, brow furrowed.

“I will still work hard, Miss Nao—“

“Nonsense, this is unacceptable. In the morning—“

Before he could hear the rest of her mandate, Castiel leapt at the hall door and completely blew their cover.

***

“What is going on?” Castiel managed to look imperious despite his earlier melancholy, and Dean moved closer to the doorway without stepping into the women’s line of sight.

In the short hallway, Naomi towered over a crumpled Adina, one of the servants of the North Wing. Her face was tearstained where Naomi’s stormed. With the way Adina clutched her stomach, it was not difficult to guess the source of their argument.

“My lord, this needn’t concern you. It is indefensible for such impropriety to remain in service to a government official. Come morning, I shall send her back to her family home.”

Castiel sucked in a breath, tempering his urge to shout at his Matron. Naomi, in the face of Castiel’s new regime, refused to bend with the tide; she had protested him at every turn, insisting he tread within the footsteps of his traditional predecessors.

Aware of all the eyes on him, he knelt slowly to Adina’s eye level. She watched him with all the fear of a cornered animal. “Adina, you are with child?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“You will have it?”

Adina flinched, face growing blotchier with a fresh set of tears. “I’m so sorry, my lord.”

Castiel hushed her, though he did not move closer or offer further comfort; he could only shatter so many expectations in Naomi’s steely sights. “I do not ask apology. Will the child hinder your work?”

“No, my lord! I remain devoted to you as ever, I swear it.”

Castiel nodded and rose, meeting Naomi’s glinting gaze. “She will go nowhere. We will meet her adjusted needs as they come.”

Adina let out a whooshing breath at Naomi’s feet, even as the Matron purposefully squared her stance against Castiel; his gaze darkened when her leg shoved Adina backwards.

“My lord, you cannot suggest this is acceptable! If the warlord heard—“

“He would not care. You think pregnant ladies in waiting are a precious commodity in High Court? This is hardly worth his concern.”

“Codes of behavior, _Castiel_. Flout one too many and he will have you sent back to the back halls you hailed from.”

Castiel couldn’t help the way his jaw went slack at her callous reprimand. Fortunately, he was distracted from coming up with a more suitable reaction when Dean moved behind him into view of the women.

He shuffled aside, taking in the way Dean swayed on his feet, crossing his arms. He appeared nonchalant, but Castiel suspected it was forced, tactful.

“Pretty mouthy Matron you’ve got there, Cas. That how they make ‘em these days up at court?”

Naomi’s face clouded over, but she was obviously thwarted. The only thing she could abide less than an unmarried girl with child in her staff was being caught brazenly slandering her superiors in the presence of a stranger. For Castiel, it was more of a victory than he could hope for given the compound’s delicate politics.

He looked past Naomi and Adina to the intersection of the halls where Meg stood, having arrived during their feud. She looked a cross between smug and indignant, forever Castiel’s champion. He knew he could rely on her now.

“Meg, please take Adina back to her quarters.” She was quick to act, sending him a smirk that he couldn’t help but return a portion of. When he addressed Naomi, it was as cool and detached as he could affect. “I trust that you will handle this with dignity and make sure that Adina’s division of labor is handled properly.”

She nodded stiffly as she was left alone to face down Castiel and Dean and, clearly outmatched, excused herself. Only then did Castiel unclench enough to allow the tremors that had been threatening to seize him since Naomi’s scalding insults.

“Cas you can’t seriously let her get away with that. The way she talked to you? You should be kicking _her_ out.” He turned to Dean, and all of the hunter’s bravado had gone; he looked sincere, and his hand hovered like he wanted to steady Castiel.

As suddenly as the shaking, exhaustion settled on his shoulders and he slumped. “If I dismissed everyone who disliked me, the house would not run.”

Dean tried to respond, brows furrowed but Castiel stopped him, weariness bone deep and evident. “I must retire for the evening, I apologize. Please do have a restful sleep so that we may lay our trap successfully tomorrow.”

Dean looked prepared to argue but all at once the fight went out of him and he stood up straighter, clearly resigned. What more could Castiel say to explain the precarious dynamics of his council and staff – they hated and favored him in turn; it was simply the way of things here.

“Good night, Cas.”

“Good night, Dean.”

Castiel could not bring himself to question the nickname he’d been given, or the curious fluttering in his chest.

化物

Sam sheathed his short knife after wiping off the blade, readjusting his footing beside the pig carcass. The hog had been brought in from the nearest pasture, apparently a few miles out. It had taken all the hours since their request yesterday afternoon to bring in the hog, much to the apparent reticence of the farmer; Sam couldn’t blame the man for attempting to defend his livelihood.

Nearby, the compound bonfire crackled, spitting up smoke and warming them. Around their makeshift slaughter site, the residents of the grounds milled and watched them from a distance. None of them seemed to feel it necessary to hide their scrutiny, but Sam couldn’t blame them; he’d be staring too in their positions.

Evening had fallen and the sun was beginning to set, washing the sky purple with clouds. They had put off setting their trap as long as possible to avoid riling the Headhunter sooner than intended; the last thing they needed was getting another person killed who was just trying to finish out their workday.

Sam held a bloodied hand out and then Dean was beside him, handing him a wooden bucket. The pig had already begun to bleed out in the dirt, but it would only aid their efforts. He angled the bucket beneath the gash in the animal’s neck and then squinted up at his brother.

“You explained this all to Lord Castiel already?”

Dean nodded, shrugging. “I went over it with him this afternoon when we were done with lunch. He said he would make sure the estate staff would know to stay locked inside once the sun is down. He’s in a meeting with that council of his about it.”

Sam looked away from his brother even as his face grew smug; apparently, Dean wasn’t feeling so wary of the resident lord anymore if he was keeping track of Castiel’s schedule.

“Talked to him a lot, have you?”

He snorted as he felt Dean’s foot knock into his backside, shifting quickly to avoid falling into the pig’s corpse.

“Shut it, Samantha.” Sam glanced up at his brother with a grin to see him looking at the entrance of the Great Hall, ostensibly the place where Castiel was now meeting with his councilmen. “He’s an all right guy... he stopped his hag Matron from kicking out a girl that got knocked up.”

Sam pursed his lips, nodding. He’d gotten the impression almost as soon as they’d sat down with Castiel that things were not run so tightly on his grounds. If anything, Castiel’s grip on his authority was as loose as he could manage without inciting complete anarchy in the compound. The Matron had shot him numerous dirty looks that Sam hadn’t missed; it wasn’t hard to believe she was strict where Castiel was forgiving.

Sam carefully schooled his voice to sound as innocent and non-combative as he could muster. Lulling Dean into a sense of false-calm was always the best tactic for information extraction. “So, you two were chatting last night?”

Dean hummed noncommittally, taking the bucket Sam pushed aside and handing him a second empty one. “While you were in the bath; our room’s in his courtyard, it ain’t that shocking.”

“You saw it happen.”

Dean frowned and didn’t answer, and Sam looked up at him in confusion. Dean’s face was tense, like he wasn’t fond of the memory. It was intriguing enough that Sam didn’t push the issue; whatever passed between them the night before, it was clearly troubling.

Sam cleared his throat, and Dean flinched, gaze flicking to Sam; the younger Winchester had the grace to play it off by holding up the full bucket. “Start spreading this around the east wall and we’ll use this one here on the west. Keep it away from where there might be a heavy presence of people.”

Dean jerked the bucket away, playing off the way blood sloshed over his fingers. “Yeah yeah, genius; don’t forget I taught you everything you know.”

Sam smiled patiently and swapped buckets again.

化物

The bonfire crackling and spitting in the center of the compound’s wide and empty square was the only source of noise or light. This close to it, it was impossible to hear the buzz of insects and croak of frogs far off in the shallow waters of the rice paddies. The blood splashed across the ground and fence had darkened to a muddy maroon that no longer shone with the light where it saturated the dirt and grain of the wood. Dean was not entirely sure that it would wash out of the fence, but he figured that would be the least of Castiel’s worries.

Beside him, his brother sat alertly, watching for signs of movement. Castiel knelt Behind them tensely, his sword across his lap. His unease was easy to pick up on, even as he attempted to hide it with silent bravado. Dean could not fault him; now was not the time for him to fall to fear or panic, when the entire compound was expecting favorable results of tonight.

Dean whispered, smothering his snicker when Castiel twitched in surprise. “So if it doesn’t show up, how pissed will your staff be?”

Sam hissed his name beside him and leaned down to smack the back of his head, but Dean could only chuckle. It was worth it to see Castiel’s face change from tense to annoyed, to distract him from his fear even a little.

“I imagine I will only need listen to Zachariah complaining even more loudly than usual about the loss of a perfectly good source of ham.”

Dean felt the guffaw bubbling in his chest and he slapped a hand over his mouth to avoid making more noise. It would do them no good to alert the beast before it had wandered into their trap.

They lapsed back into silence at Sam’s shushing, though the way his mouth twisted told Dean that he too was amused. Dean settled back into his ready kneel at the opposite side of the Great Hall’s doorway. The three of them were tucked into the front door’s mouth, using the black of the empty, dark hall behind them to obscure them from view. The bonfire was burning low enough that its light only reached as far as the Great Hall’s steps and the lip of the veranda. They had a mostly unobstructed view of the only two blood trails they’d set up, both leading away from the west fence toward the hog’s body. As per their instructions, all of the compound’s staff had been instructed to hole up in the servant’s housing in the East Wing to provide safety in numbers. The few men and women that were left to staff the North Wing were also instructed to stay together in one room until any potential danger had passed.

Time passed, the sky growing inkier as the hour spun deeper into the night. There was a brief moment where chimes rung out somewhere far from their hiding spot, only for them to realize it was midnight. Dean shifted, holding in his grumbling; this was the frustrating part of their profession. It was equal parts waiting and risking his neck. He almost wished he’d suggested they bring a deck of cards.

Sometime later, he glanced at his brother in an attempt to quell his boredom. Now he was listing and much less alert than he’d been at the start, but who could blame him? It was approaching the middle of the night when they all should have been well-fed, boozed and asleep in their pallets. Sam still clutched the hefty cross bow loaded with tripwire to his side, body set on catching its target even if Sam’s brain was ready for sleep.

Dean was on the verge of sleep himself when a scraping to their right jolted him awake, though he prided himself on moving hardly at all as his eyes trained on the source of the noise. The light of the fire no longer reached the wall, but it was not quite pitch. He looked back and forth between where the blood trails should be, nigh invisible as they were now, looking for any sign of movement. Then he saw it and he couldn’t help the chill that stiffened his spine.

A mass, darker than the sky behind it seemed to rise up above the fence; to the untrained eye it might be unnoticeable but with the quiet scraping of claws it was easier to spot the figure where it seemed to bloom out of nothing at the top of the fence. Sam shifting beside him told Dean that his brother had seen it too, and they stood and waited tensely, moving minutely as to not draw any notice. Dean was relieved that he heard nothing behind him; Castiel must have realized what was happening, even if he hadn’t spotted the creature.

So quickly that Dean almost missed it, the dark shape dropped from above the fence to the ground and now it was confirmed: the Headhunter had been drawn in by the scent of the pig’s body. He felt more than saw Sam sliding in an interval of inches into a ready stance, planting the butt of the crossbow tight against his shoulder, tuning his aim. If he missed, their task would be much harder and even impossible if the monster fled before they had time to stop it.

Castiel, now on his feet (Dean was impressed about how quietly he’d moved) shuffled up beside him until they were all at the ready, still hidden from view. The beast, still not illuminated satisfactorily, didn’t move from its spot, but Dean knew better; it was not aware of them, and was more likely taking in the surroundings for signs of the thing that had attracted it. A moment later it moved forward enough for Dean to make out, and it continued until it had stopped just outside the circle of light. Then one ugly, taloned foot slid into the firelight.

His eyes snapped to the side at Castiel’s sudden intake of breath and he squeezed his hands into fists. If he gasped, if he gave them away, their stakeout would be for nothing. He winced at the quiet but rattled breath that left their host’s mouth and he looked back to the creature which had now fully passed into the light.

It was stock still, small head sweeping across the grounds slowly, scanning for something. Dean swallowed, willing the monster to resume its search for the carcass that lay less than 20 feet away from it. He held his breath when the monster looked toward the Great Hall.

Sam raised the crossbow a little higher.

The beast looked away and resumed its approach, drawing closer to the remains and the trio’s location. When it was closer to the pig, it leaned its already hunched body forward to sniff at the hog, its overlarge, long-fingered hands dragging on the ground.

Sam fired.

The beast hissed and jerked back at the sound of the wooden release of the crossbow’s spring load, only to be caught across the sternum by the tripwire, one of the weights whipping around its body to thump painfully into its back. Dean sprang out of the doorway, freezing long enough to aim before he loosed a throwing knife, aiming for the creature’s shoulder. Behind him, Sam reloaded tripwire into the crossbow to take one more shot at binding the creature, and the slide of steel on lacquer told him Castiel was at the ready despite his former shock. Dean feinted to the side quickly to allow for a clear shot for Sam, drawing his own sword.

The Headhunter squawked, a strange discordant hum that rattled out of its long torso. The high shriek paired with a low simultaneous growl alone would bring a lesser man to his knees. The knife that had lodged in its arm was easily ripped from its flesh and tossed aside as it wheeled around on Dean. It did not expect the second trip wire that hurled low at its waist and caught the injured arm close to its body.

“Come on you ugly son of a bitch.” Dean lunged forward, sword arching upward.

He was not prepared for the cornered monster to grab the blade, slicing its flesh but halting in midair. Dean could not hold onto the hilt when the monster tugged so he wisely jumped back, avoiding the clumsy swing of the Headhunter as it flung the sword to the ground.

“Dean!”

Dean turned in time to catch the short sword Sam tossed him, and he tossed the wooden sheath to the side just as his brother joined him and fired one last tripwire at the creature’s legs. The moment Sam dropped the crossbow, his hand was on the hilt of his own sword and the two brothers surged forward, steel glinting in the bonfire.

There was a melee; even without one arm, the Headhunter’s grasp was long and reaching and it was difficult to get close enough to use the short sword. Castiel had wisely tried to outflank it and approach from behind.

Without warning, the Headhunter threw the weighted tripwire at Castiel, the mottled iron on the ends of the wire dealing a harsh blow that made him stumble backwards. As it swung back around, Dean didn’t expect the pig carcass to come sailing toward them. He felt something hard scrape across his cheek as the wind was knocked from his lungs. He heard Sam grunt and he swore.

Dean sat up, double vision lighting up his field of view with fire and blurred color. He shook his head to clear it.

Then a vice closed over his neck and he was suddenly lifted off the ground as his senses cleared and narrowed down to the monster holding him aloft. He heard the other men shout his name, saw the glint of Castiel’s steel behind him in the firelight. Then he felt searing pain tear up his chest and into his shoulder and another weight close around his head.

Dean choked, trying to gasp in enough air to breath, but it was futile. His cleared vision went hazy and kaleidoscopic again, sounds growing farther away. He heard another clear shout of his name before everything went black.

化物

The aftermath of the Headhunter’s escape was possibly the most harried night of Castiel’s life. He chased after Sam as the taller Winchester hauled his brother back to the North Wing, blood oozing from his shoulder in sick, pulsing rivulets. He intermittently uttered curses and hissed his brother’s name to keep him conscious. Castiel stumbled across the threshold and almost didn’t recognize his voice as he yelped for help from anyone who could hear.

By the time he slid to his knees across Dean’s prone body from Sam, Rachel had joined them in the guest room. Castiel tried to control the tremor of his request, and he could see the answering panic in his trusted servant’s eyes; she remained calm despite her trepidation and fled to retrieve the requested medical supplies.

Sam had already ripped open Dean’s tunic and was trying to staunch the blood flow with the tatters, muttering to Dean in an effort to prevent him from fainting. Dean’s eyes were unfocused, glazed over with acute agony, and Castiel reached out to close a hand over his wrist, feeling completely helpless. Sam gave him a strange look but it lasted only a moment because Rachel had returned with sterile cloths and hot water, herbal salve, needles and thread. Castiel let go of Dean, took one of the cloths and wet it, blotting Dean’s face to clear away the dirt and sweat. Now Dean’s eyes seemed to follow him lazily, but he could tell that Dean was not truly aware.

The minutes passed tensely as Sam inspected and cleaned the wound, and then began to prep the needles for suturing; Castiel felt ill when it became apparent that this was not the first time Sam had found himself in this situation.

In reality, with the blood and grime cleaned away, the gash was smaller than anticipated. Still, Dean required stitches to have any hope of it healing soon and without infections; it would inevitably leave a scar, but the unobstructed view of his torso was enough to assure that it would not be his first. For the first time, Castiel took in the tattoo over his breast, flames encasing a pentagram; he had never seen a symbol like it.

He flinched every time Dean howled in pain at the puncture of the sewing needle, but Sam’s hands were steady. The lanterns set around them by Rachel highlighted the sweat on Sam’s brow. Dean’s features set in a rictus of pain, and Castiel found it difficult to watch him. He must have been in agony; beyond the gaping wound, he was surely littered in bruises that would begin to darken over night.

Trembling with tension, Cas shifted on his knees away from Dean to look at where Rachel had sat herself attentively, slightly behind him; still, he kept a hand closed around Dean’s wrist. It made sense really, since they needed to keep him from lashing out in a burst of pain. He told himself that was his only motivation.

Rachel met his eyes and perked.

“Is anyone else awake. You should go rest. I would like you with me in the morning.”

A hint of a smile graced her lips, but she kept a business-like façade. “Meg and Ingrid have gone to sleep. The rest of the girls have gone to stay in the East Wing for the night, as per your instructions.”

Castiel let out a heavy exhale. Ingrid had been swayed more and more by Naomi as of late, and he was loathe to work with Meg’s temper at the moment; loyal as she was, she was completely foul when tired.

He was startled by the lightest touch of Rachel’s hand to his knee.

“It’s all right my lord; I will stay until the danger has passed.”

And so she did, as the hours passed with Sam successfully closing his brother’s most severe wound. Rachel brought them more hot water and clean bandages, clearing away the mess as it was created. Castiel could not help but watch the windows of the closed door and walls for another glimpse of the grotesque shadow of the Headhunter. As confident of a swordsmen as he might be, he had never seen anything the likes of the monster that had appeared before them.

By the time the sky began to dry from black to a damp gray, Sam had deemed Dean to be out of danger. Safely, Dean had fallen asleep and Sam seemed ready to pass out where he knelt.

Castiel and Rachel rose to help resituate Dean on his bedroll, more comfortable than the floor. Sam gave a mumbled thanks but was already falling onto his own bedroll with drooping eyes.

Castiel and Rachel left the brothers to sleep off the encounter, and Rachel urged Castiel to retire as well. Dawn was still an hour off but it afforded Castiel woefully little time to rest, especially with the confrontation he expected from his council come daytime.

He retired to his bed, but it felt like only a blink later before he was being roused. He looked disparagingly to the windows high on his courtyard wall, but was confused to see that it was well before midmorning.

He grunted and rolled into a sitting position, barely vertical before his door slid open and he was surprised to see Ingrid kneeling in his doorway. She looked anxious.

“What is it?”

She gulped. “My lord, the Matron will not wake. She has the sleeping sickness.”

Castiel felt his throat knot with a keen sense of dread.

化物

Castiel stood back near the perimeter of the room, watching where Sam suspended the blank warding paper over Naomi’s torso; her breathing was shallow, radiating her discomfort to everyone in the room. Sam’s lips barely parted as he chanted, garbled and unidentifiable words dripping in a stream off his tongue. For a long moment, Castiel was transfixed.

Naomi was the first illness on the premises since April nearly two weeks ago, and the Winchester’s first taste of the sleeping sickness. Multiple monks and shamans had come before Sam and gone through the same motions, casting prayers and spells over the dying, all for naught.

Abruptly, Sam’s words stopped and the warding paper crackled and spit sparks; Sam quickly lowered the talisman and then leaned back as the charring ate away at the paper. A symbol was left behind, gouged out of the paper from within by fire, though what the symbol meant Castiel didn’t know. He took a step forward as Sam leaned over, presumably to interpret the omen.

When Sam leaned back, he turned to Castiel looking grim.

Castiel stood up straighter, rigid. “What did it tell you?”

Sam cleared his throat, glancing to the corner of the room where two girls – Rebecca and Hester – knelt in tense silence.

Castiel tilted his head, squinting.

With an exaggerated roll of his shoulders, Sam stood. “My lord, I think I would like to speak with my brother on what I’ve seen. Why don’t you _join me_?”

Without more than a backwards glance, Sam slid the door open and stepped into the hall, just as Rebecca rose from her kneel to shuffle back to Naomi’s side. Castiel followed the hunter.

After a beat, with the door closed, he spoke. “You wished not to speak in front of the servants.”

Sam tossed a smile, though it seemed exasperated, over his shoulder as he led Castiel back to the guest room. The sleeping quarters of the North Wing servants was situated at the opposite end of the hall from Castiel’s, putting two sizable rooms between them. The halls were still and quiet, even as they passed guards and the odd courier, tongues tied by the real expectation that the Matron of the grounds would be dead before the next sunrise.

Sam opened the door to the guestroom but stepped aside to admit Castiel first. He seemed to have a great deal of respect for propriety, doing his best to move within the confines of it when possible, Dean’s foil.

The sight that greeted Castiel made him smile despite the circumstances. The courtyard doors had been opened wide to bring fresh air into the room. Propped with pillows and a flask against the door jamb was Dean, his good arm draped over a propped knee, lazing in the pleasant shade of the room. Outside the sun beat down on the grounds, the approach of noon tangible in the slow-moving air.

“Finally.” Dean didn’t spare them a moment before he was shifting gingerly to face them, frowning expectantly. “What’s the deal? The bitch kick the bucket or what?”

Sam blanched. “Dean!”

“He is not wrong. No, Naomi has not passed yet.” Castiel brushed off the insult; it was increasingly difficult for him to feel charitable toward his Matron of the Household. He found Dean’s lack of regard for manners quite amusing, even.

Sam lowered himself to a comfortable seat beside the low table on the south wall, setting the burnt paper out in Dean’s full view; the elder Winchester was far enough that he clearly couldn’t interpret the outcome of Sam’s ritual.

“I’m not sure what to make of it yet. The sigil turned up presence of the occult like we thought, but beyond that I don’t know what to make of it.”

Castiel sat himself on the other side of the table, peering at the warding paper. “What does it mean?”

“Well the spell is like a compass – this paper is pressed in holy water, so it turns into a kind of divining rod. The symbol burned out at the end is supposed to indicate what kind of threat we’re dealing with, at least in general. The spell over Madame Naomi turned up two things. One is presence of the supernatural – so at least we know that this isn’t just a random epidemic circling your staff.”

Dean cut in. “What else does it say.”

“Well that’s what I don’t get. Signs indicate possession or the presence of spirit.” Sam ran a hand through his hair; Castiel had quickly put together it was a sign of frustration. “Why would a ghost possess a person and then lie in a coma?”

Castiel frowned. “Naomi is possessed?”

Sam wouldn’t meet his eyes, a frown fixed on his face. Dean cleared his throat and drew Castiel’s attention.

“Malicious spirits always got an agenda. Unless you have a spirit poking around here that got killed by a disease and then suddenly decided to go on a revenge spree at the same time that a monster is using your place like a buffet, it’s unlikely.”

Sam tapped the table. “You said that the other four people that died in their sleep all seemed to grow ill overnight and then die within the next two days?”

Castiel nodded.

“I agree with my brother; the timing is too coincidental for it to be a malicious spirit looking for justice, especially when none of your staff have any guesses; this is the sort of thing that gets passed down. Someone would remember, coincidence or not.”

“So it’s not a ghost?”

“I can’t say it’s not definitively, but I’d rather explore other options first. The spell isn’t always completely accurate, so I’m not willing to put all my faith in it.”

Dean grunted. “So we keep looking.”

Castiel tried to mask his disappointment; the Winchesters had already come closer to solving his problems in three days than any person before them had. He had hoped that their impressive knowledge of the supernatural would make quick work of the mysterious sleeping deaths. With the shroud pulled off the Headhunter, there was one less specter to haunt them. As horrific as it was, the Headhunter was just a beast, and beasts could be slain.

Sam cleared his throat. “That’s what I want to do, actually. I want to go out into the forest and look around; no one has gone further than shouting distance from the compound to look for the Headhunter, and there are forests in eyeshot. Castiel, can you spare an able warrior to go with me?”

Dean startled, suddenly mobile. “Woah, woah, what warrior? I’ll go with you.”

“Dean, don’t be ridiculous. It hasn’t even been 24 hours yet; if you do that much moving you’ll tear your stitches and you’re not going to be able to fight anything we find.”

“Well I ain’t letting you go out there alone to find its nest!”

Castiel watched the volley like a ping pong match, trying to hide his smile when Sam’s voice edged on whining.

“That’s why I am going to bring someone with me. I won’t be caught off guard and if we do find something, we’ll handle it.”

“I’m not trusting a stranger to watch your back, Sam.”

Castiel cleared his throat, disrupting the brothers’ feud. “I can give you Ion – I vouch for his service. His record is spotless and he has kept me safe since the moment I took office. If I wanted anyone,” here he lifted his fingers in quotation, “watching my back, it would be him.”

Dean scoffed, but Sam cut him off before he could object. “That would be ideal. I’d like to speak with him before we go anywhere though.”

“Of course.” Immediately Castiel fumbled to his feet, willing himself to ignore Dean’s glare. “I will summon him now.”

In only a few minutes, Castiel returned with Ion in tow, and the tension between the brothers was evident. Dean was openly glowering at Sam, who seemed to cheerfully ignore it in favor of a book now open on the table. He was on his feet the moment Castiel stepped back in the room.

Castiel gestured to Sam. “Ion, you will help Sam Winchester with his scouting mission outside the compound. Whatever he asks of you, I expect you do your utmost to provide.”

Ion’s face was severe and void of any expression save calm obedience. He nodded curtly at the mandate.

“Ion was it? Come to the front hall with me.” Before anyone could object, Sam slipped past Castiel to lead Ion away from the guestroom and, presumably, Dean’s protests.

The power of Dean’s glare turned swiftly on Castiel, and the lord did his best not to flinch as he slid the door shut. Stiffly, he approached the wounded hunter but sat with a still respectable distance between them.

Dean seemed uninterested in breaking the silence to assuage the awkward tension in the air and Castiel glanced around, pinned by it. He briefly entertained the thought of excusing himself, but Dean’s bluster was an obvious cover for his distress at the thought of Sam going into the forest without him. Castiel could not blame him; as a child he would have been hard-pressed to let his younger cousins go exploring without his watchful eye.

He spoke tentatively. “Dean... I swear that Ion is a good sword and a loyal guard. I do not wish to see harm befall him _or_ Sam, any more than you. Please believe he is in good hands.”

Dean looked away, perhaps paused by Castiel’s open sincerity. If his tone was also unbecomingly pleading, no one else was there to hear it.

There was a beat as Castiel waited to hear Dean’s reply.

The hunter grunted, pointedly looking into the courtyard rather than at his host. “So what are the chances we could get some grub in here?”

化物

One of the benefits of travelling so frequently was the availability of imports. After a lifetime of being a nomad, Dean felt qualified to call himself a connoisseur of certain wares, with alcohol at the top of that list. His own country made a modest showing in its offerings, but the national predilection for rice wine had missed him sometime during his teenage years of getting drunk in the back of taverns in the laps of entertaining women amused by his youth. So often, the women would not offer him the best swill available because he couldn’t pay for it, but charmed by his grin and pretty face, they were persuaded to tip flirtatious sips of ale over his lips when the proprietors were not watching; they were never watching.

Now a grown man nearing thirty, Dean hadn’t lost his taste for ale, though he’d refined it into an appreciation for all spirits born of wheat and barley. Prowling the country as he and Sam did, it was unthinkably easy to come across markets selling imported drink from lands where whiskey reigned. It had seemed increasingly evident over the years that the upper class seemed to share in his tastes. On the rare occasions that he and Sam had found themselves in the services of a lord or high minister, foreign spirits were always passed around without thought.

All of this further confirmed that Castiel was something of an odd duck.

Sam had set off with Castiel’s guard – what the hell kind of name was Ion? – an hour after midday, trawling into the forest in search of any evidence of the Headhunter. They were solitary creatures, owing to their choice of sustenance being somewhat complicated to catch. Two or more Headhunters sharing one feeding ground would likely end up in self-sabotage. On the one occasion that they’d tracked a Headhunter to its nest, they’d found themselves in a sealed off mountain tunnel, void of light and the presence of other life. Following that logic, this monster’s nest was probably buried in the forest somewhere, perhaps in a convenient cave or dying tree.

It galled Dean to think of his brother out there now with only some high-born pedigreed swordsmen who’d likely gone right from training onto this lord’s estate. The government’s men didn’t train to kill things that went bump in the night.

With Dean too “infirm” (Castiel’s words) to go with Sam, he’d stayed behind to wallow with his old friend whiskey, only to later find that Castiel had none on the grounds, which was every kind of sad Dean had ever encountered. He’d offered Dean ale as a substitute, apparently recalling his preference from their meeting that first day. In the corner of his mind, Dean had been surprised at the consideration.

Now the sun had begun to sink, the air cooling off with the timid breeze passing over the compound walls. Dean was into his third drink while Castiel contented himself with measured sips of rice wine.

Dean raised his glass. “What’s the deal, Cas? You’re king of the hill, and you don’t even take advantage. You sure you’re doing your job right?”

Castiel frowned in thought, and Dean wondered if he understood the concept of teasing; if he didn’t, it would fit everything else Dean has gleaned about him in the last few days.

“For a time when I arrived here from High Court, I did try to keep things as they’d been. My predecessor apparently had a taste for opulence, if my older councilmen are anything to go by.”

Dean knew from unpleasant experience that he probably meant the sneering old ministers in his council.

Castiel continued. “But after a month or so, it began to feel superfluous. So little was accomplished that warranted the spending I was doing on things that we could do without. I started making changes after that, much to Zachariah and Metatron’s disagreement.”

Dean swirled the amber liquid in his glass, hummed. “And now they hate you.” He glanced up, quirking his brow with a smirk, but of course, Castiel just frowned more deeply.

“It would seem that way. Naomi does not care for my policies either.”

The old Matron of the grounds who now lay across the compound comatose had made quite the spectacle of herself the last time Dean had seen her. Naturally, the urge to know more was a result of her angry fit aimed at Castiel two nights before; it had nothing to do with the soft moue of Castiel’s mouth or the cinch in his brow.

“So really though man, why is she so against you?” Dean stopped, then grimaced and added, “And why is she so invested in your sex life?”

Castiel gave a rueful chuckle, downing another gulp of wine. Dean not-so-surreptitiously leaned forward to refill his cup from the tall decanter, a white, delicate thing painted with flowers.

“Naomi was bred for a more traditional household. She doesn’t think someone of my station should fraternize with the staff unless we’re taking all our clothes off.”

The resigned slump in his tone drew a laugh from Dean, and Castiel looked up, corners of his mouth turned down. But as Dean continued to snicker around his glass, he spied the way Castiel struggled to keep an answering grin off his face.

“So basically, your problem is that you don’t booze or bone enough for your senior staff?”

Apparently this simplification of the problem did not amuse Castiel as much as it did Dean, and his host responded with a deadpan _in a manner of speaking_.

Dean didn’t attempt to stifle his chuckle, almost cherishing the opportunity to tease Castiel. He didn’t look at that feeling too closely, or his soothed gut at the news that Castiel had no interest in seducing his staff. Staring into his ale, he could not banish the brief flash of the reserved, peculiar man in a state of much less decorum, much more _undone._

Flustered, Dean blurted out, “Why _don’t_ you make Naomi happy, entertain some of your ladies? Or do you have a fair maiden for you waiting back at High Court?”

Castiel studied him, though his apparent confusion only increased and Dean blustered on, determined to dig his way out and into an affirmative answer that he didn’t particularly want to hear. “I’ll bet you have a mountain of wistful letters attached to peony branches boohooing your separation.”

“I find that I do not enjoy the company of most women as so many of my cohorts wish I did.”

Dean’s mouth snapped shut; he could not bring himself to sip his drink, to break the suddenly awkward air brought with Castiel’s cavalier admission. The bamboo spout out in the hidden courtyard _plunked_ loudly in the silence.

“There was a girl in my youth, a daughter of my father’s colleague. We used to spend hours of our afternoons sitting on her father’s veranda decoding poetry and making up tales about its authors. She married the month before I was assigned this position, when I graduated from my clerical studies.”

Dean swallowed, leaning back on one hand and regarding Cas openly, brazen with the alcohol and strangely frank tenor of their conversation. “Were you disappointed?”

Castiel tipped back another sip of wine, setting the cup back down with a sigh; it did not seem particularly resigned or weary. “Perhaps at first, but then she was my friend. I do not think I could have given her the kind of life she wanted; she loved the Court. I am glad she found a match that gave her her life’s happiness.”

“Do you want that still?”

“Marriage?”

Dean shrugged. “Marriage, kids? You’re a lord; you obviously come from the posh life. You could find a wife in a heartbeat.”

Castiel smiled at Dean, like he’d gleaned some secret from Dean’s probing inquiries. “I think that I would not like that so much. I am content for the women here to remain my confidants. I fear I can trust them more than the people I am meant to.”

“And kids?”

The lord paused, looking down at his lap to avoid Dean’s gaze. “I think my time is better devoted to providing for the peoples of this land. I do not know what I could offer to a child of my own... my own childhood doesn’t offer much to recommend.”

There was obviously more here, hurt buried shallowly enough that Dean had uncovered it with even the lightest prodding. It was terribly familiar, and he could appreciate when there were things better left undisturbed.

“I hear that. But I think you owe yourself a little fun. You don’t have to love them to enjoy their company, trust me.” He winked, and expected the surprised blush that crept across the lord’s nose.

Castiel cleared his throat, eyes darting away from Dean and then back. “I suppose you’ve experienced ladies from all over our fair lands.”

It was the fault of the alcohol that Dean leaned forward, grin unfettered. “Among others.”

As soon as the words were spoken, Dean wished he could snatch them back, but he risked even more embarrassment in trying to cover up his accidental confession. He had little time to contemplate as realization swept across Castiel’s face.

“Among others?”

Dean squared his shoulders, hoping he could muscle his way through whatever judgment his host was about to cast. “Yeah.”

It felt as though he could feel the brief tension that fell over them again; Castiel’s throat bobbed with an audible click as he swallowed. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled, tentative.

“Variety is the spice of life.”

The hunter had only a moment to be stunned before he shook himself, barking a surprised laugh. “So it is.”

***

The trees of the forest west of the estate were deciduous, full and green with the flush of coming summer. The light that speckled the ground was enough to see by, though Sam knew better than to let them be caught here when the sun began to set. If they found themselves further than a mile into the forest when the sun fell, they’d be little more than a buffet for the Headhunter or other predators that made their home here.

The lord’s swordsman Ion was a quiet fellow, though he moved with the careful and alert gait of a well-trained man; it was satisfying to know that Dean’s complaints were really for nothing.

They’d been moving on a steady trek into the forest’s depths, within sight of one another but far apart enough to cover more potential nesting spots. Sam reasoned that they need not find the nest itself to find signs of the Headhunter’s presence.

He almost wished that he’d been wrong.

The call of _here_ was just loud enough to be heard and Sam looked to his companion who had stopped and was crouching over something. Sam moved lightly on his feet, doing his best not to disturb any underbrush and limit the crunch of cast-off under his boots.

In a grotesque pile at Ion’s feet were human remains. Conspicuously, there was no sign of a head, though that was not the only piece missing. He grimaced, covering his nose at the putrid smell clinging to the air around the rotted remains. Clearly, they’d been picked at by other scavengers, but the corpse’s clothes remained, if not entirely intact.

“It is Gadreel, my comrade.”

Sam glanced at Ion in sympathy, unable to imagine seeing someone he’d worked with so closely in such a state. Still, Ion’s face remained steely and devoid of the pain Sam expected.

He looked around the area, scanning for further remains. A few feet away lay what was probably a femur, evidence of teeth marks gnawed into the bone.

“The fact that there’s no head corroborates that this was the Headhunter. If it came this way, it must be living deeper into the forest.” He frowned, looking into the shaded distance, obscured by trunks and full branches of trees. There would be little merit of them traveling much further, though this confirmation that the Headhunter had at least passed through here was better information than nothing.

Smothering his resigned sigh, Sam reached into his pack and withdrew a burlap sack. “The least we can do is return his remains for a proper burial. We’ll head back now.”

Ion nodded curtly, accepting the sack.

Sam looked around again. “Is there any possibility that we could take a larger force into the woods to search? It’s fortunate that we found your comrade’s body, but it isn’t proof of a nest.”

“My lord’s estate boasts a modest militia, but they are not all present. Rarely have we experienced the unrest required to bring all hands back to the compound. Those who remain are not all as skilled as Gadreel or myself, and with how he faired...”

Sam grimaced again, coming to the inevitable conclusion: the lord’s men would not rally in time for any effective movement against the Headhunter. He nodded, hunching over.

“Let’s get him home.

***

Castiel slid his cup further away from himself, the wine that Dean had poured rippling inside. “How _did_ you take on your profession?”

Dean rolled his neck, wincing as something popped. He could feel Castiel’s eyes on him, awaiting answer, and knew he could not avoid the subject.

“My father hunted monsters – he began when Sam was barely out of swaddling. I grew up in the saddle, looking after Sam when my father would take us from village to village, breaking curses and killing beasts out of lore.”

Castiel leaned forward, visibly intrigued. “Was your father a scholar, or a monk?”

With a snort, Dean said, “Hardly. Before hunting, my father was part of our village guard and did blacksmithing on the side. I was four when he took up hunting.”

“Then why did he suddenly change careers? Not that his efforts were not noble...” There was an unsure lilt to the lord’s voice, like he was trying not to offend. It was blatant, and oddly charming.

Still, Dean avoided his gaze as he took another sip of his ale, only to see he was pulling at dregs. The jug was empty and there was nothing else to distract Castiel from his reticence.

Castiel leaned in slightly, voice quieter. “I am sorry if I have stirred memories better left alone. You need not answer.”

Desperate for the out, Dean stretched expansively and shuffled back from the low table. “To tell you the truth, that damned beast took it out of me; it’s pathetic.”

Castiel was quicker to action, though Dean noticed the slight sway in his gait as he rose and rounded the table, giving Dean a respectful birth. “Of course, but you are hardly pathetic for surviving the attack of such a vicious monster with only a few stitches and some bruising for your trouble. I know men that claim to be greater who could boast far less.”

Dean scoffed. “The sun hasn’t even set.”

“There will be plenty more evenings for you to enjoy. For now, heed your body and recover.”

Dean rose to his knees, climbing slowly to his feet with a hiss where his muscles moved beneath the suturing. Castiel reached abortively for him, but then seemed to think better of it and drew his hands back. Then he began to gather the heavy comforter that Rachel had laundered and put away in the closet by the room’s small alcove.

“Man I can do that, don’t worry about me.”

Castiel ignored him, making up Dean’s bedding with more alacrity than he’d expect from a lord. Resigned, Dean approached the bedding, studying Castiel when he was focused on straightening blankets and fluffing the pillows just so. So many things about this odd man struck Dean as endearing when they should have been simply off-putting. With the haze of alcohol, Castiel seemed almost domestic, a homemaker readying a warm space for Dean to rest. The warm, singular pulse of his heart at that thought made Dean’s face bloom warmth, and he steeled his nerves. It wouldn’t do anyone any good for him to find himself catching feelings for a man far, _far_ out of his reach.

“Dean?”

Trying to smooth over his dazed pause, Dean knelt beside the bedroll, slowly working himself onto the padding. Only when he was fully seated in a position to lie down did he remove his long tunic. Castiel snatched it from his hands and before Dean could protest, he was folding it, albeit crudely, and setting it behind his pillow. Dean did not stifle his chuckle and Castiel smiled back.

Dean eased back against the pillow and sighed with pleasure. After so long seated on the floor without stretching his muscles, it felt good to lie back in the plush warmth of the comforter. He closed his eyes, basking in the decadence of his sleeping quarters; he had spent much of his life sleeping in rougher quarters than these. Behind his shut eyelids he noticed the lights dimming accompanied by the quiet shuffling of his host. He heard the doors to the veranda slide closed and lock, followed closely by the creak of the window inlay being pulled away; late afternoon light still filtered into the room, casting it in dim shadow.

On a yawn, he spoke. “Something killed my mother in the middle of the night before Sam was even a year old. I never learned what it was; my father claimed it was some kind of great evil creature, worse than anything in lore, but I’ve never seen the thing he described in almost 25 years of traveling.”

There was silence, and then softly, “You are strong for what you’ve endured.”

Dean cocked his head to try to catch a glimpse of Castiel, but there was little light left in the room to make out his face.

Most people wished him shallow condolences when they learned of Sam and Dean’s mother and her untimely death, of their father’s sad path down the road of endless hunting and searching. Of course Castiel would defy this expectation too.

“You ever think you can’t imagine what you’d be like if life had given you a few more breaks?”

There was more rustling and Dean closed his eyes again. The question didn’t beg an answer; in truth, there wasn’t one.

On the edge of consciousness, he heard a soft _Yes_ and felt the covers being tucked higher on his body. Then there was nothing.

化物

Sam returned as the sun was just setting, bearing the weight of Gadreel’s remains between himself and Ion. It was difficult to watch his companion from that afternoon face down the curious staff that greeted them at the gates, shouldering the task of explaining what was in the sack. He walked away just as one women fell to her knees in hysterics.

With Dean sleeping off the effects of ale and his injuries, it was difficult to make any definitive conclusions about their search efforts. While they’d confirmed that the Headhunter had passed through the forest, it was impossible to say whether it had made its nest there. Without a larger search party, it would be futile to mount another search, even if it was earlier in the day, especially with Dean still in recovery. Until they could amass more solid man power, they would need a different approach.

Sam woke with the sun the following morning, muscles aching from carrying Gadreel’s remains for over an hour the day before. Dean was already awake, polishing his dirtied weapons in the dawn’s light. Their conversation was quiet as Sam joined his brother at the low table that Dean had pushed toward the veranda’s doors. It came as little surprise that Dean had been awake for most of the night, and had naturally made the dangerous decision to patrol the grounds in the dead of night. While his search had turned up little of value regarding the Headhunter, he’d witnessed something of almost equal interest.

The Matron of the grounds was dead.

While soothing his itch to stretch his legs and survey the compound without nosy eyes watching, Dean had been passing the entry of the East Wing when he’d heard the soft but clear sounds of mourning. Concerned, he let himself in and followed the noise to the small room beside the servants’ quarters. Inside were a few women and one man, all with heads bowed in varying states of distress, but there was no need to ask about the source; in the center of their huddle was a sheet-covered body. It was easy to deduce from there that Naomi had finally succumbed to the sleeping sickness.

The whole situation was baffling. While it was obvious that they had a monster on their hands, the brothers had never seen symptoms like those Naomi had shown. Briefly, Sam had visited her sickbed again to try to form some conclusion about the nature of the illness plaguing the estate. While her symptoms were apparent, their cause was not so forthcoming. He would need more time with an archive or their father’s journal to have any luck with a diagnosis.

Naomi was the tenth person to pass since the compound had fallen under siege, but only the fourth to die in her sleep. The rest had been taken by the Headhunter. Sam was sure now that the sleeping sickness and the Headhunter deaths were two separate matters entirely, but he was hesitant to bring it up to Castiel. Without further information, it seemed fruitless to burden him with knowledge he could not use; Dean seemed to agree. They would wait and learn more about the situation.

By the time breakfast was brought to them and Castiel joined them to discuss their next course of action, their plans had been made. In order to make more headway on combating the sleeping sickness, they would set out to visit the nearest settlement and look for signs of the troubles plaguing the compound. At the very least, they would learn if there had been any unusual deaths outside of the lord’s grounds. Sam wasn’t entirely convinced that the sleeping deaths were tied uniquely to the estate, but proof lay outside the compound walls. They had no choice but to go and find it.

Once their bellies were full and their horses tended to, they departed for the small village an hour’s ride from the estate. After being at the compound for four days, it was almost a relief to get out and escape the curious stares. By the time they reached the small settlement to the southeast, the sun was high in the sky and they were ready to roll their sleeves up and get digging.

But their efforts went largely unrewarded. The unofficial village chief was forthcoming in letting them question the residents, but no one had experienced the strange goings-ons happening just an hour away. Some had heard a version of the events at the Lord’s estate, but they had no insight or information. Sam spent more than an hour alone reading through the village’s ledgers and secretary’s chronicle for insights about any curses or history that could explain the sleeping deaths, but he was left empty-handed. Still, the village people were welcoming, offering the brothers a hot meal and kind company.   By the time they mounted Impala and Loki to return to the compound, the sun was low in the sky and the frogs had begun to sing.

Despite their lack of success, Castiel seemed enthusiastic about their return. It almost seemed as if he’d expected them not to come back, which made Sam’s heart ache; even without Dean’s level of familiarity, he had become fond of the quirky feudal lord. If not for the circumstances of their employment, he could see them being good friends. They still could be, if Castiel’s great matter could be put to rest. He was also well aware of the strong friendship already forming between his brother and Castiel, and he would not be surprised if his brother was reticent about leaving when this was all over.

With another day passed, they had no choice but to regroup and form a new plan of attack for the morning. Castiel had informed them that though small, the compound did boast an archive that they could have full access to if it would help. It was as good as any place to start and even if Dean would grumble about sticking his nose in dusty tomes all day, they had few options. He would have to make due.

With the threat of the Headhunter still looming large, they resolved to keep watch in shifts to avoid any surprises. Sam took the first watch until midnight, because Dean had been awake since the middle of the night. He wisely kept his mouth shut when Castiel offered to get up with Dean at midnight to keep watch into the middle of the night. When he cast glances at his sleeping brother an hour later, he couldn’t help his chuckle. If Dean and Castiel were becoming that close, well, then Sam could not complain.

***

Dean sat with his back to the warded doors of Castiel’s room, sword propped across his lap. Beside him was a half finished cup of tea courtesy of his host, who also sat on the veranda. They had taken watch from Sam at midnight and stationed themselves in the quiet darkness of the private courtyard to sit out their watch. Dean could not find it in himself to protest Castiel keeping him company.

His memory of the afternoon before was hazy but solid enough to know that he had revealed more of himself than he was wont to do normally. The only thing that kept him from recoiling from Castiel’s apparent invasion of his time and space was the fact that he had been equally, if not more, forthcoming about himself.

The quiet grate of Castiel’s voice drew his attention back from his musings.

“My sister Anna had sent me a letter that she wished to visit me and see where I govern. I have not been able to give her my blessing because I fear for her safety if she does come now, in the midst of all this turmoil.”

Dean cocked his head. “So you have a sister? Where does she live?”

Castiel smiled fondly, drawing all of Dean’s focus. “We both grew up at High Court... my mother was a younger sister of the previous Warlord. She is still there as a lady in waiting to the Warlord’s wife.”

Dean nodded, impressed. “So she’s pretty high society then. She married?”

Castiel chuckled ruefully, but his smile widened. “I supposed it is a family trait that neither of us have predilections for marriage. She is a well-loved poet and writer at court. I presume that she has had dalliances with lovers of her choosing, but she has not wed. She will not consent to marry a man she does not approve of wholly.”

Dean raised his teacup in toast. “Well then she’s a smart lady.”

Castiel chuckled, tapping his own to Dean’s. “That she is.”

Dean did not lower his cup, tapping it against Castiel’s a second time. “And so are you. Smart, I mean.”

In the dark, it was hard to make out all of Castiel’s features, but he was sure he heard shyness creep into his tone. “Then, to all of us and meaningful matches.”

Dean grinned, tipping back the last of the tea in his cup. He held Castiel’s gaze, belly warm with tea and something else at the sight of his host’s pleased smile, at his gaze flitting between Dean and his lap.

It was almost becoming too much.

“Cas, you know—“

Dean was so focused on Castiel’s face that he registered his panic immediately.

“Dean!”

He had his sword in hand and unsheathed even before he heard the strange squawk-growl of the Headhunter.

Rocking forward onto his knees, Dean flung his arm out in a controlled arch, tensing his muscles in anticipation of contact; he rotated on his knees, swinging around to slice at the monster. His attack was enough to stun the large creature, forcing it back from its lunge. Behind him, Castiel scrambled to his feet and moved onto the soft dirt of the courtyard, allowing more room to maneuver. Hoping to corner the Headhunter, Dean feinted toward the front of the building, farther from Castiel, then out into the dirt, putting the monster between himself and the other man.

Dean and Castiel tensed into fighting stances, hands and swords hovering in a ready attack stance. The Headhunter yowled and spit at Dean, head whipping back and forth every so often to gauge Castiel’s position. Turned toward Dean at it was, Dean surmised that he had attracted the creature back, whether because it had scented his blood, stale and leading to the courtyard from the attack two nights prior, or because he smelled the wound now.

When the hulking beast glanced at Castiel again, Dean lunged forward, sword raised. But the Headhunter was fast, and it crouched low, leaping just high enough to evade Dean’s swing and allow the man to pass beneath it before it came back down, arm outstretched to snag Dean’s tunic. Before he could feel it tug him backward though, Castiel was there, plunging his sword into the creature’s forearm. It howled angrily, the high-pitched screech of its dual vocal chords making Dean hunch his shoulders in a cringe. Castiel yanked his sword back, leaving a decent gash in the Headhunter’s arm. Still, though wounded it didn’t seem fazed and hopped backward only to lunge forward again immediately.

This time, Dean’s rounding slash caught its stomach. It was not a deep gash, but it forced the creature back again and gave Dean time to right himself and square up beside Castiel, grinning at their clear advantage. Beside him, he heard Castiel laugh with the adrenaline of a good fight, and he sent a pleased glance to his companion.

The quiet snick of their bedroom door alerted Dean that Sam was awake and likely poised to join the fight, waiting for an advantageous moment to join the fray and tilt the scales to their victory.

All they needed was to corner the beast and lop off its head. Though it was tall, the Headhunter’s form was lean and with one confident strike, a clean blow was more than possible. If they were careful and patient, the opportunity would present itself.

“Cas we gotta get it toward the house.”

Cas grunted in acknowledgment.

Making the first move, Dean darted out in front of Castiel and ran for the bamboo gate at the south end of the courtyard, intending to cut off the creature. Behind him, Castiel lunged straight for the Headhunter, drawing the bulk of its attention. He almost stumbled out of his run when he heard Castiel’s shout of pain, but he reached his intended position before he turned.

Castiel was disarmed on the ground, the monster looming over it. Before its outstretched hand could close around Castiel’s neck, Dean gave a rallying shout and ran at the Headhunter, ready to leap into the air and swing.

It chose to avoid the attack rather than meet it, darting away toward the building. Dean covered Castiel, giving him time to find his footing and arm himself again. A quick, worried glance confirmed his fears: Castiel’s right arm hung at his side, probably from dislocation, and the sleeve of his tunic was ripped to reveal a bleeding gash. Still, he looked determined, sword held at the ready in his left hand. Reassured, they began to advance on the beast, forcing it back towards the veranda.

If Dean was asked to summarize the ensuing ten seconds, he would probably just shrug and tell his audience they wouldn’t believe him.

Seeing his opportunity, Sam slid the door open with his sword at the ready, running onto the veranda to strike at the creature’s vulnerable back.

The monster turned toward the immediate threat, giving a menacing shriek-growl to try to back Sam down. Dean lunged forward into a sprint, sword raised to strike at the creature’s front.

Sensing the immediate danger from both sides, the monster swung around again and chose to feint to the side, but Castiel was faster. Seeing the opening, he’d sprinted at an angle for the pillar holding the roof over the wooden walkway of the veranda, leaping up toward it, only to vault back toward the monster. He contracted his body, sailing high enough to bring his sword down into a clean swing, clear into the Headhunter’s exposed neck.

His feet hit the ground at the same time as the beast’s hideous head.

Dean and his brother stood stunned as Castiel caught his breath. Drawing his sword back across the lip of its scabbard, the lord sheathed his weapon.

Castiel panted. “Good riddance.”

Dean burst into laughter.

化物

Castiel had spent very little time in battle for all of his training as a swordsman. He’d spent a memorable portion of his youth running drills with the other young sons of Court, swinging a wooden sword until his arms were sore and his face hurt from laughing at his classmates’ antics. Anytime he wasn’t out in the courtyards, covered in dust and scrapes, he’d spent indoors with his nose gleefully buried in a book.

By the time he had reached his Coming of Age day, Castiel had participated in boys’ tournaments for the martial and sword arts, making a more than modest showing of his talents.

The Warlord had noticed.

Suddenly, he had very little time for books as orders from high came down to begin grooming Castiel. His cousins were begrudgingly pleased, having expected very little of their bookworm cousin who chose not to devote all of his time to the arts of War despite his raw talent.

At 15 he was sent with a small battalion to put down an uprising in one of the territories in the bleak north. Toting themselves as a peacemaking envoy from the capital, their true mission was to bring the territory back to peaceful allegiance or eradicate the insurgent.

Castiel only spent two nights out on the battlefield, but it had been enough to know that it was far from the life he wanted. Man of duty that he was, he followed the lead of his superiors and put the matter to rest, all the while praying that he might return to his home and reclaim his position of general obscurity.

In many ways, his appointment as Lord of the Farlands was an answer to his prayers. He was alone so far from everyone he’d ever known, including his only sibling and true friend, but with very little precedence for violence, the relative monotony of his station was welcome.

Waking up with his arm swaddled in bandaging and a cocktail of herbs to anesthetize the pain, he was ironically grateful to the very position that had caused his injuries. He would be glad to go back to the “tedium” of his position so far from the capital if it meant an end to the slew of deaths that had fallen on his house.

When the sun was well on its way overhead, Sam and Dean joined him in his room, insisting he rest his injury. Still, Castiel could not very well receive visitors in bed and so he did his best not to jostle his arm in its sling when he joined the other men out on his veranda with a full teapot and fresh rice cakes.

“I gotta say Cas, that might have been the most impressive thing I’ve seen in a while, and I’ve seen a lot.” Dean huffed around a bite of salted rice and fish.

Castiel looked down politely, shifting uncomfortably beneath the praise. “That thing killed many good innocent men and women. I feel satisfied in being the one to dispatch it.” He paused but then added hurriedly, “But I could not have done it without your assistance. I owe you much.”

Sam put up a hand, ceasing his humble tirade. “Don’t thank us yet. We’ve dealt with one problem for you, but I’m not convinced that there isn’t something else going on.”

Castiel frowned. “You think that something else is still afoot.”

Sam shifted, face serious. “The sleeping deaths, we’ve never seen a monster cause something like that. Even if this thing was carrying a disease, we have no way to prove it.” At that, Sam glanced at his brother.

Castiel looked to Dean expectantly, swallowing. He had prepared himself for the eventuality that the brothers would be on their way, taking their mirth and good company with them. Now he could not quell the flutter of hope in his chest as he watched Dean clear his throat in an effort to effect nonchalance.

Dean looked out into the courtyard, body relaxed like his words were of no consequence. “We figure we’ll have to stick around a little longer to see if we really put this thing to bed. Hope you weren’t looking to get rid of us.”

Quickly, Castiel looked to his lap and the teacup cradled there. He took a measured sip in an effort to hide his wide, happy grin and doubtlessly red cheeks.

Against his better judgment, he glanced up at Dean.

The Hunter grinned, openly fond and apparently pleased with Castiel’s reaction.

He let his smile show.

化物

A strange sense of lethargy descended over the compound in the wake of the Headhunter’s extermination. Those who had managed to sleep through the night learned of the news in lurching waves of hysterical joy and relief. By the evening, the women were dancing around the bonfire in celebration, taking their joy where they could. Naomi was gone, but at last it seemed there was an end to the dying and awful procession of burials.

In the light of day, they had buried Gadreel’s remains in the small interment plot up the path behind the compound’s north wall. Castiel made sure he was present as two of the grounds workers had cleared the burial plot for Ion to lower the clean white sheet of his comrade’s remains into the grave. Sam and Dean had stood back from the scene, watching in grim silence as the monster’s last victim was put to rest. It seemed that the rest of the estate’s staff was not aware that the specter of the sleeping deaths still remained, but Castiel was adamant about not ruining their moment of respite. They would deal with the threat if it came again, desperate with hope that it would not.

They dined on exquisite boar and vegetables, caught up in the merriment of the grounds’ staff, and traded stories about their youths, of Sam and Dean’s travels and Castiel’s training as a young swordsman for the Warlord. He even managed to produce whiskey for Dean, which the hunter crowed about profusely. They slept heavily and well that night.

The next morning, with the trio’s bodies aching and wounds smarting, they made use of the North Wing’s private bathing quarters. The wood paneled room was big enough for at least six people, and the men spread out, enjoying the decadence of a private bath. For Sam and Dean it had been a long while since they’d had the luxury of a bathhouse to wash away the toil of their work. This was their third bath in six days, a new record that they would be loath to fall behind when they needed to move on, and rely once more on a cold bucket of well water and a washcloth.

The wood-paneled room featured a full looking glass across one wall with three separate water basins beneath it. The back wall sported high windows with sliding glass panels that could be opened to let the steam out of the room and allow more light in. Across from the water basins was a huge tub with a stone basin that had been thoroughly scrubbed and filled with steaming water. Once they were all washed clean, they slouched into the tub and reclined against its slanted sides, letting the heat soak into their sore muscles and ease away the stress of the last six days. For Castiel, it felt as if the entire month’s burden had slid from his shoulders, and even though he was not out of the woods yet, it felt good to think he could finally be allowed to rest.

Nearly drunk off the steam and the fresh opiate salve that he’d slathered on his arm, Castiel forgot to hide his open scrutiny of Dean as the three men relaxed quietly in their shared bath. They sat with only a body’s worth of space between each of them, but they’d each seemed to retreat into their own heads, claiming the moment of respite, and so the brothers did not notice Castiel’s stares.

Dean was a beautiful man. His life had made his body rugged, but it was not hard to see the supple lines of him underneath, the softened slopes of his face and shoulders, the defined curves of his muscles curated by his profession. It had taken until now for Castiel to realize Sam and Dean sported the same tattoo, an anti-possession talisman inked into their pectoral muscles. They’d explained its significance and their father’s fervent paranoia, and not for the first time the lord got the sense that he had more in common with the Winchesters than he’d initially suspected. The tattoo was now partially obscured by the tub’s water line with Dean slouched comfortably in the bath, head tilted back along the widened rim. With his skin flushed it was easier to make out the spray of freckles that seemed to cover him from head to toe, though Castiel had known they were there from watching Dean undress outside the bathroom proper. It was incredibly endearing for a reason Castiel could not pinpoint, but they somehow suited Dean’s boyish charms. In such close and open quarters, Castiel hoped that his full-body blush could be blamed on the heat of the bath and not his appreciation for Dean.

So wrapped up in the man across from him, he was caught when Dean looked up and captured his gaze. Castiel could not hide the glaze across his eyes or the thorough flush in his cheeks, but Dean didn’t glare or fidget under the scrutiny. Instead he seemed to return it for a tense, suspended moment before he offered a wink and a smirk. Castiel hurriedly looked down, a private grin spilling over to his cheeks. Sam sat between them, none the wiser.

For the second night in a row the servants celebrated in the estate’s front square, laughter ringing into the night. This time, Castiel and the Winchesters joined them. Castiel was buoyed by the euphoria of his whole house, sitting on the front steps of the Great Hall in observation. Dean and Sam sat beside him, Sam in jovial conversation with the young archivist of the grounds, a boy fresh out of his schooling named Kevin. Dean sat on the step above Castiel, knocking a knee against him every so often, appearing to move closer as the night deepened and the fire burned down. Eventually Castiel leaned his shoulder against Dean’s knee, giving his weight over to the man beside him. Neither of them moved until the last of servants had retired.

On the morning of the seventh day, rain fell.

Castiel woke to grey light filtering through the windows of his courtyard wall. As he rose to open the now unwarded doors to let in fresh air, the smell of wet grass and ozone was heavy in the air, pounding rain drowning out any other sounds of toil on the ground. Inexplicably, he had a sharp sense that now the world had tilted, that the bubble had burst. Today there would be change, and there was no way to avoid it. With a cautious heart, Castiel began to rouse himself for the day.

He took his breakfast alone, Sam and Dean showing no signs of waking. By the time the brothers had left their rooms, Castiel was entrenched in a meeting with his counselors about the death of the Headhunter. He had managed to stave them off in deference to his injuries, but there was no way to avoid them indeterminately. It was not until lunch, with the sun making no appearance in the sky, that he ran into the brothers on the steps of the North Wing.

Sam suggested they go sit in their guest room to talk, but the way Dean avoided his gaze told him all he needed to know, with the meeting as a hollow confirmation.

The Winchesters were leaving.

In the guest room, Castiel had tea brought while Sam arranged himself at the low table. Dean seemed more restless, standing by the open courtyard door; he appeared focused on the rain, a faint frown set in his features.

Sam’s voice cut into his reverie, but Castiel could only spare him a glance. It did not stop the younger Winchester. “It’s been almost three days now since you killed the Headhunter. We know that there may very well be something else happening here, but there’s no way to tell when or if someone else will fall ill.”

Castiel nodded absently, for Sam’s words rang true.

Sam cleared his throat, and Castiel forced himself to meet the other man’s gaze; his eyes seemed to hold pity, and Castiel wondered if he was so transparent. “You told us that the four women who died in their sleep were all part of the servant staff, and that there was no consistent timeline to their deaths besides them falling into comas and dying within two days?”

Castiel nodded, looking to his tea to avoid Sam’s face. “Yes, that’s right. April, Muriel, Puriah, and now Naomi.”

“And they didn’t have anything in common besides being women and being part of the servant staff.”

“Yes, they all worked under Naomi.”

Sam sat back, his frown now deeper set. “I know what the spell told us, but there’s no way to prove without more information that this was something supernatural and not just a natural illness.”

Dean shifted in the doorway, crossing his arms, but otherwise did not comment. Castiel let out a heavy breath.

Sam spoke with resignation. “We cannot justify staying longer without proof. We need to move on, see if other people have tried to contact us.”

Castiel, in an effort to disguise his disappointment, nodded and offered to serve Sam more tea; the younger man did not object. “Yes, that only seems fair. You have already done much for me and my household; I do not want to keep you from your work.”

Sam gave a nod, but the heavy look of sympathy on his face and his frequent glances at his stoic brother told Castiel that Sam was more than aware of the source of Castiel’s reticence. It seemed possible, but too much to hope for, that Dean’s terse silence was similarly motivated.

But Castiel was Lord, and even when the odds were not in his favor, he was expected to persevere, to be the unshakeable figurehead. This he had been trained to do and could do now.

He clapped his hands, drawing Dean and Sam’s attention. “Then permit me before you go to arrange a feast in your honor. You have prevented more unnecessary deaths with your service and I would see that celebrated. Surely you can spare one more evening to let me do this?”

Sam made the decision for them, before Dean could make a pronouncement, nodding. “That’s gracious of you. We would enjoy that, and we can leave fully rested in the morning.”

Castiel breathed a sigh of relief, but still the stone in his gut sat heavy; his timer had not been cut, but merely extended. With little other choice, he gave a forced smile and excused himself to enact the preparations.

化物

At dawn, Castiel roused and ordered that a light breakfast be prepared, and that extra food for travel be arranged. No sooner had he taken his tea and a small rice cake than were the Winchesters emerging from their room, possessions neatly packed into their traveling satchels.

Castiel met them in the hall with a tired greeting and pronounced that he would join them to the front gates to see them off.

Their trudge from the North Wing to the front gate was silent, and though Castiel felt a veritable storm of words swirling in his chest, he could not think of how to voice them. He could not stop the brothers, could not stop Dean from doing his job. This truth and the curious sadness in his throat kept him from speaking up.

A sleepy stable hand appeared with Impala and Loki’s reins in hand, presenting them to their riders. The horses seemed pleased to see their owners, having been stabled for much longer in one place than was their custom. Sam began to attach his bag to Loki’s saddle, moving to put the horse between him and his brother and their host. If his intent was their privacy Castiel was not sure, but he appreciated it nonetheless.

But presented with Dean’s undivided attention, he could not think of what to say.

Castiel cleared his throat, but Dean spoke first. “Cas... If anything happens... If another person dies, you send for us right away, understand?”

Castiel observed him quietly, swallowing thickly. Could he ask them to visit if they found themselves passing by? Their work had brought them this far south, but eventually it would take them too far away again to think they could spare their time to merely visit.

Dean reached forward, but the movement was cut short, and his hand returned limply to his side. “I mean it Cas – if you call for us, we’ll come, as soon as we get the message. The Hunter network extends all over the country. Just don’t wait so long this time, or it might be...”

Castiel wasn’t sure what he meant to say after, but the earnest frown on Dean’s face kept him from declaring that Dean’s promise to travel from the far side of the country was in fact ridiculous.

With more finality than he intended, he sighed. “Yes, of course I will Dean.”

“Dean.”

Sam’s quiet summon was enough to jostle Dean to attention, and the moment passed.

Castiel turned to Sam as the tallest of the trio came before him and bowed.

“It’s been a pleasure helping you, my lord. We are here to help you again if you ever need it. Really.” Sam’s rejoinder was less morose, a fond smile on his face, and Castiel was helpless to return it.

“I am indebted to you forever. You will always have friends here, please know that.”

“Thanks Cas.” At that Sam inclined his head again and backed away to climb onto Loki’s back. Castiel raised his head and signaled to the guard tower to open the gate, and the slow, even groan of the wood made the horses whicker.

Dean met his gaze as he held Impala steady, but there was nothing to be said. To Castiel it seemed for a moment that Dean might open his mouth and say any of the number of things that seemed to be crossing his face, whatever they may be, but after a long pause he said, “You take care, Cas.”

Castiel nodded, straightening, squaring his shoulders against the departure of the only two people he might have called ‘friend’ in this land so far from home. “You too, Dean, Sam.”

Dean mounted Impala then, and a brief look passed between the brothers before Sam clicked his tongue and urged Loki forward with a firm shout. Dean echoed it and Impala followed her companion out the front gate and onto the road that led south.

Castiel watched them go until the closing gate obscured his view.


	3. Man

With the deepening of summer came the rains. This far to the south, seasons came sooner than they did to the capitol and some days Castiel longed to escape to his birthplace just to outrun the wall of rain that seemed to have lowered around his territory. For almost two months his people would have to weather the damp and heavy heat that came with the rainy season, with very little respite. If they were fortunate, there would be few typhoons but they were an almost unavoidable casualty of the season. With productivity thriving in agriculture since his taking of office, he was confident that his people would not starve if inclement weather hit. Still, there would be little to celebrate but the cool fronts that came when the heaviest of rains washed away the heat for a night.

In the summer, Castiel scaled back his touring and survey of the land to avoid illness brought on by too long spent in the rain and heat. With the death of the Headhunter, the tension of living at the estate was lifted and people were happier, calmer. For a time, it gave Castiel comfort.

Likewise, the monster’s death, particularly by his hand, had raised local opinion of him. Even the more staid members of his council seemed to turn their noses up a little less as the compound returned to a semblance of normality. Those of his small cabinet who remained on the fence fell more increasingly in his favor, which smoothed over the difficulty of being stuck inside for days at a time. With Inias and the more vacillating Ephraim and Bartholomew leaning in his favor, handling Metatron and Zachariah’s stuffy rancor became a little easier.

Still, the slow reanimation of regular activity on the grounds was not enough to distract Castiel. He found himself sitting on the veranda in his courtyard, watching the space by his gazing pool where he and Dean had spoken in private confidence, thinking over the handful of nights that the Hunters had shared the room beside his.

His feelings for Dean were sudden and strange. Castiel had been a young man, was even a young man still. He’d known the sting of first love and the molten churning of lust from his days as a teenager in schooling and war arts training. As a young adult he’d even had his dalliances with other young men and women from his social circle. None of them had been anything like Dean; his feelings had never simmered so deep nor quaked inside him the way they had in Dean’s presence. It was wonderful, but infuriating, and ultimately a useless venture. Their lives would never intersect in any way that could kindle a deeper friendship between them. It made Castiel almost thankful that the heavy glances and choked off declarations had come to nothing. If Sam and Dean’s departure was hurting him now, what might it had been like if _more_ had been allowed to happen.

Some days he wondered whether it had happened at all, if this was still a bittersweet dream he’d wake from.

No, this was better; this was the way things should be. He would do his job here, unfettered and undistracted. The only person his apparent disinterest in marrying could hurt was himself, but Castiel saw no merit in passing on his genes or cultivating a place for his name in the historical archives. His duty to his land and people would be enough to subsist on.

So he watched the rain and did not ruminate on freckles and green eyes.

人間

Being back in the saddle after a relatively long respite wasn’t an unfamiliar phenomenon. Dean and Sam had made a life out of traversing the country and stopping where the winds and whispers lead them, typically for two or three days at a time. The relative severity of the problem dictated how long they stayed, and the urgency, how quickly they traveled. Tracking the date was only useful for canvassing case histories and knowing when to haggle for discounts at the market.

Dean never thought he’d miss being on the move, but hitting the open air after seven days of running circles around the same wooden perimeter culled a strange appreciation for limitless horizon and an unfettered breeze. Then there was the street food, the booze, and the lounges. As decadent as it was to have a plump bedroll and a free, personalized meal brought to him each day, it was repetitive. There was something refreshing about their first stop for street stall noodles and stolen booze from questionable sources.

Of course, none of it was complete without the lounges tucked away into the cities littered across the archipelago. When they stopped in small villages, they were often restricted to the local tavern with its house booze and handful of loose tongues, but cities provided a whole buffet of interesting men, women, and drink that could make Dean forget for a few hours. The moment their horses plodded into view of Foca City, the metropolis planted at the western-most reach of Castiel’s territory, Dean was leading Impala and a muttering Sam to the gate yard’s stables. No sooner were the horses fed, watered and bedded down than was Dean tearing out with his mostly emptied travel satchel and stopping at the first noodle cart in sight. It took him an impressive three minutes to order and suck down a bowl of hot broth and noodles, and he was still chewing pork belly as he tossed the vendor an extra coin for his privileged recommendation of the best lounge to visit.

The brothers had only been to Foca City once, years ago when the old Lord ruled the Farlands and the city resembled a settlement for mercenaries more than a bustling limb of local government. The streets seemed cleaner, fewer men lurking in shadow and more business spilling into the streets. It was strangely gratifying to see Castiel’s reach in this metropolis three days travel from his isolated estate to the northeast. The people looked happier, but then keeping more of their livelihood in their coin purses might do that for a person. If nothing else, Castiel’s ruling acumen was shrewd enough to know when going without might improving his situation.

The gate yard’s mouth led out into the main thoroughfare of Foca City, and once his noodle bowl was left empty on the cart’s counter, Dean was off with the muttered directions of the vendor in his ear, Sam’s exasperated _this better not go like last time, Dean!_ only half registering as he navigated up to the first major crossroad and turned right, navigating toward the ports and its sailors’ leisure dens.

Finding prostitutes was a simple feat; it took little finesse to track down a person willing to sell their time and body. What was trickier was finding good hosts to make three hours feel like ten minutes with charming conversation, music, and perhaps the intimate nudge or two beneath a table surrounded by comfortable cushions and maybe even seatbacks if they were lucky enough. A good host or hostess would suspend time for as long as they were paid, planting lulls only where strategic, coaxing their clients into lethargy and relaxation and then at the end of their appointment, getting them back on their feet refreshed as if from a full-night’s sleep, and all without ever taking off a piece of clothing.

Dean was handsome enough that he found little need to pay anybody for a roll in the sheets, but he was more than willing to allocate some hard-earned coin for a charming man or woman to sweet talk the ache out of his bones and play vigor back into his body. And if his own tales of the road managed to have that charming host slipping him a sprig of Paolownia with a corded note about meeting later in the evening? Well that was just gratitude for his patronage.

Today was no different as Dean lead his laughing brother into the entryway of the vendor’s recommended lounge, presenting the Madame of the house with a pile of coins and quietly requesting two entertainers for three hours, much to Sam’s surprised snort. What was so bad about splurging every so often? The proprietor smiled charmingly, a sly woman with long, raven hair and a cheeky grin, and led them through a stiff curtain into a room with a low wall that bisected it, leaving a small space for them to stand while the other side sprawled wide with enough room for several people to sit and busy themselves. In that large space were slightly less than a dozen men and women, all dressed finely and wrapped up in their own busywork. Here they could choose their entertainment for the afternoon.

Upon choosing, Sam and Dean were escorted out the other side of the small space and into a hallway, down which the proprietor led them to a doorway on the right. With her key ring, she opened the door and let them into the small but comfortable room prepared for a small party of clients, replete with a low table, cushions (with seatbacks), a clean tea set, plenty of empty glasses for liquor and ale, and a small raised platform where the hosts might play or perform a short dance. The boys settled in with shared grins and awaited their entertainment.

It took two nights for Sam to insist that they actually check into the Hunter message network. Two straight nights of drink and charming men and women was more than enough to rest up the brothers after their week-long job up at the Lord’s estate, or so Sam insisted. Begrudgingly Dean agreed, and so they found a tavern connected to the country-wide information network for Hunters. It wasn’t so much technical as it was consistent, an immovable hub for messages to move through should Hunters need to be contacted from a distance.

They checked in on their third day in Foca City, and although there were no summons by name, there were plenty of incidents to draw their attention, three in the city itself that had not been tended to by other Hunters.

It was not a stretch to expect the supernatural to lurk in such a thriving city, an easy source of nourishment for any number of creatures that could blend into humanity by daylight. Before they’d spent a week in Foca City, they’d dispatched a Shapeshifter and a Waterwoman, putting enough weight back onto their purse strings to take the edge off.

They spent time enjoying the city’s different inns and local faire, and Dean made sure to be present at the market before the sun came up to catch wind of any foreign liquor transactions that he might cut in on. Few things in this life were better than breaking the seal on a bottle of foreign spirits after a successful job.

As the week turned over, word reached them of trouble in the distant suburbs to the south of Foca City. They accepted the job eagerly, ready for a change of scenery despite the varied delights of a large city. The necessity for travel in their work have made them so accustomed to the drift that it was now impossible to resist for long. Still, Dean reasoned that they could start fresh in the morning after one more night spent in the lounge of Madame Pamela, as she’d treated them so well on their first night in the city.

In the middle of Dean’s host’s sitar performance, Sam leaned in and muttered in his ear.

“He’s very skilled. I’m surprised you didn’t ask for him last week.”

Dean smirked, responding quietly as not to offend their entertainment. “I like to sample the whole table, Sammy. What’s the use in limiting myself.”

Sam snorted softly. “That so? This one, he’s pretty good looking, hm? Even I think so. His dark hair really compliments his skin tone.”

Dean turned to glance suspiciously at his brother. Sam had never shown Dean’s wide taste in sexual partners.

“He reminds me a little bit of the man you hired the first night here, but his eyes were much lighter weren’t they? “

Dean hissed, “What are you getting at?”

“Oh but I really like the woman from the second night. Dark hair, those interesting blue eyes, and she had a kind of quiet charm didn’t she, not like the woman I hired. I wonder how you picked such a variety of hosts?”

Dean felt a bead of sweat trickle down his forehead; the room was a little warm, wasn’t it? It could just be that Sam’s implication had suddenly made the room for stifling.

“Sam, back off.”

“What? I’m just agreeing with you; you don’t have a type at all, you are man of great variety.”

Dean gritted his teeth, holding his tongue and focusing all his attention on the man with the sitar on the raised platform. Seemingly amused, the woman Sam had hired shuffled up to the table to refresh their drinks, tiny controlled smile bowing her red lips.

The night stretched on until they were forced to say goodbye unless they could offer more coin, so the brothers left generous thanks and tip for their hosts and retired to an inn closer to the southern gate of the city.

It seemed Sam was content to let his mocking go until Dean was lying back on his bedroll in the dark room they’d rented.

“Do you miss Castiel? You guys seemed to get along.”

Dean clenched a fist, though Sam could thankfully not see his frustration. “Leave it alone, Sammy.”

“It’s ok to have friends Dean. It doesn’t mean anything if you want to stop by the estate if we pass back that way.”

The lilt of Sam’s voice told Dean that he knew exactly what it meant if Dean suggested they return to the lord’s compound.

Dean grunted and rolled over, putting his back to his brother.

It took them half a day to find the village of Hatak to the south of Foca City, and three more to ferret out and kill the fledgling nest of vampires that had bedded down right in the heart of the tiny settlement. Before they had even succeeded, a missive had arrived summoning them southeast to another village struggling under the apparent claws of a curse.

Another day’s travel brought them to a bigger village, much farther inland than Hatak; their wheat stores were impressive, and the whole village smelled of tangy yeast and dough uncommon to the area. It took them little time to deduce that the village was not plagued by a curse or a ghost, but a band of animated lanterns that had just been christened a century old by the village archivist. The trouble they had caused was greatly perplexing but virtually harmless, if not frustrating for the local grain keeper who kept waking to find his stores scattered and burned. The village treated them to a dinner of rich breads and cured meat for their trouble.

They had traveled so far south that there was little civilization to take in without turning back. They enjoyed one night out under open sky, letting the horses graze in the moonlight while they laid back on their rough burlap sacks over soft soil. It was rejuvenating to enjoy the harmless and wonderful facets of nature when they were so often forced to deal with its more dangerous elements.

By the time they made their way back north, it had been a little more than two weeks since their departure from the lord’s estate. They traveled northward to the more eastern reaches of the Farlands where another Hunter tavern was situated in the border village of Koram. The people here were harder, swayed by the dual hold of Castiel’s politics and his neighboring lord to the north, Malachi.

They enjoyed a night under a solid roof in the Hunter’s keep, a repurposed temple that had fallen to fire before local memory, repaired and outfitted as an inn with a well-stocked bar. They enjoyed hot curry and rice, a dish more popular to the north, and contemplated looking for a new assignment.

In the open vestibule of the inn’s first floor, other travelers and Hunters shared the space, relaxing and resting. Most kept to themselves, though the barkeep was chatty enough to catch Sam and Dean up on possible cases in the area.

Mid-explanation of a possible Oni problem farther north, a man joined them at the counter. He seemed tired, still dressed to travel; he had clearly only just made it to the village, likely riding since before the sun had set. The barkeep fetched him water without pause, but as soon as he offered it to the newcomer, the man shook his head.

“Something stronger if you could?”

Dean eyed him, assessing. Sam was friendlier.

“Rough journey?”

The traveler chuckled, though there was little mirth in his face. “Aye, I’ve been in the saddle since Hakat. It was barely midday when I left.”

“What brings you here?”

The man now seemed gathered enough to unwrap his travelling cloak, and set his satchel on the counter. He pulled out a folded parchment and set it on the counter, apparently as his explanation.

“I am to deliver this message to the couriers who will bring it to Lord Malachi.”

Dean leaned in, grinning. “What’s the big news?”

The man seemed nervous, lowering his voice before he leaned closer too. “Nothing good. There has been death at the Lord Castiel’s compound.”

Dean sat up straight, choking on his ale. Sam slapped his back harshly, speaking before he could clear his throat.

“Who has died?”

The man shook his head. “I do not know, they used cipher to write the missive. All I know is that someone in power is dead and my superiors are ill at ease.”

“Dean.”

Dean realized he’d stood up and was staring the man down, who now looked even more nervous than he had before.

“Dean.”

He looked at Sam who had a hand on his shoulder, placating; it would be no good to cause a scene in a room with so many curious eyes. Of course, that was the least of Dean’s current concerns.

“C’mon Sammy.”

“Dean, wait.”

But Dean was bound for their room where they’d stowed their travel packs, ignoring Sam’s trailing summons.

人間

It was only with Sam’s reasoning and frustratingly faultless logic that they did not leave Koram until daybreak. In their trawl down the southern tip of the archipelago, they’d wound a serpentine path southeast from the lord’s estate, putting them at a three day steadily-paced journey back to the lord of the Farlands’ home. No matter how eager they were to return and confirm the rumor, they could not make their horses or their own bodies defy nature.

The trip was agonizing. In his moments of clarity, Dean felt sorry for his brother; he knew he was acting insufferable out of worry, and even if Sam understood, it didn’t make his grouchy outbursts easier to deal with, especially when they were riding the trail harder than they’d needed to in months.

They passed by nameless villages, places that existed only in local consciousness, homesteads too minor for a cartographer to track; they didn’t have time to use the main thoroughfares that would make the ride easier, but ultimately lengthier. It took Dean almost a day out of Koram to realize that his flask was empty and had been since two hours outside of the border village. Perhaps that was a sign of his distress, and an explanation for why Sam seemed to have more patience than usual.

Ultimately it took them nearly three full days of riding, with only the minimum of stops, to make it back to the northern reach of the Farlands. When the land started to gently incline and they were forced to veer off their path toward the established roads, they knew they were close. South of lord’s estate, everything flattened out to fairly level terrain that eventually terminated in sand and water. With the increase in pastures they knew they were getting close, and Dean thought he might have wept in relief when they passed through the small village where they’d questioned the residents the day of the Headhunter’s death.

Dean could hear Impala’s powerful heaving snorts as he rode her harder into the ascent to Castiel’s compound. Her sides quaked beneath the tight brace of his calves. He released one aching hand to pat her neck even as she barreled forward. When they arrived, no matter what they learned, she would have her time to rest without exception.

Although they saw the guard tower when they were still some ways off, the gate did not open for them when they were finally within throwing distance of the compound’s walls. As Sam and Dean slowed to a trot and dismounted, the wind carried raised voices down from the tower. At the very least, it proved that the guards were aware of their arrival.

Dean cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Someone get out here!” Restless, he moved forward and then back again, ripping his arm away from Sam’s grip when his brother tried to gentle him.

Before he could get truly worked up, a man emerged from the small entry door beside the main gate. The man looked anxious, but not entirely surprised to see them.

Dean was on him immediately, grabbing the collar of his shirt. “What the hell happened? Who died?”

Sam shouted behind him and then had his hands around Dean’s biceps, pulling him away from the panicked guard.

“Dean, get a hold of yourself! This man didn’t do anything.”

Before Dean could respond, the man raised a hand. “Good sirs, it is a relief to see you. We had no idea when our message might reach your notice. We expected it to take another week at the least.”

Sam held Dean back to prevent another outburst, speaking over the elder. “You sent for us? We didn’t receive a message.”

The guard nodded, and opened his mouth, but was interrupted by a shout from above. A moment later, the creak of wood signaled the movement of the gate’s massive doors, and Sam and Dean had to grab Impala and Loki’s reins to keep them from startling.

As the groan of the pulleys became steadier, the guard spoke again. “Two nights ago, we sent out a messenger to the villages south of here to disseminate his message in hopes of reaching you faster.”

“Well what’s the damn message?” Dean grunted, petting Impala’s sun-warmed muzzle to keep her calm.

The man shook his head. “My good sirs please let me escort you inside, where these matters are better discussed.”

“We don’t have time for that, could you just—“

“Dean!”

“—tell us what the hell is—“

“Dean?”

Dean stopped, words falling apart.

In the open gateway, looking a little confused, Castiel stood with his pageboy waiting dutifully behind him. He seemed a little out of breath, as if he’d run from the North Wing.

Dean swept his gaze over the man as if he might be a ghost, or a trick. Still as the seconds passed and silence settled again, nothing happened save for Castiel leaving the shadow of the gate to meet them outside, Samandriel moving behind. He approached until he was just out of Dean’s reach, looking perplexed, though if it was at their presence or Dean’s reaction, Dean couldn’t be sure.

After another awkward beat passing between the five present, Castiel seemed to take charge of the moment. “Dean, Sam, I’m relieved to see you return so soon. We were sure it would take—“

“You’re all right?”

Castiel stopped, looking at Dean again. “All right? Yes I am fine, why are you asking?”

Dean’s gaze flicked between Castiel’s blue, blue eyes, as if looking for the lie, but there was none. He felt the breath whoosh out of him and his shoulders slumped as he let go of the fear that had gripped him for the past three nights.

Sam spoke for them both. “Three days ago, in Koram... we ran into a messenger from Hakat that was passing a message onto the couriers for Lord Malachi. He said someone here at the estate had died, but couldn’t name who. He said it was someone in power.”

Castiel seemed to register quickly what had transpired, and Dean flushed under his suddenly focused scrutiny. “You thought I was dead?”

Sam cleared his throat. “We didn’t know what to think, just that we should return and see for ourselves.”

Dean looked stubbornly toward the forest, avoiding the lord’s gaze as he willed his heart to slow and the flush in his cheeks to recede. His thoughts and intentions felt stripped bare for all in their company to see, but he struggled to convince his body that the cause for panic had passed.

Castiel cleared his throat, looking toward Sam as he did so. “Please come in. I would speak with you both where our privacy is more assured.”

Dean took a deep breath, mentally shaking away the paralysis. Castiel was alive, but there was still a new murder to solve. “Lead the way.”

Castiel looked over his shoulder to catch his eye, a tentative smile on his face.

Dean did not look away.

***

Castiel had led them across the grounds, striding quickly with his head up. Though his rush suggested that he was more than anxious to find them the privacy he’d suggested, his cheerful queries about where they’d been for the last two weeks presented a false front of ease; it was strange, and obvious, at least to Dean.

He’d ushered them into the North Wing, sending Samandriel off to _fetch them some refreshment_ though the way the pageboy had lingered and seemed to communicate silently with his superior belied the commonplace request. After a pause, the young man had disappeared around the corner quietly, and then they were alone as Castiel bypassed the meeting room where they’d first sat together and took them straight to his own chambers.

Now they were scattered about the room, trying to situate themselves for what was no doubt bad news. Castiel was restless in tidying things that were not out of order to start with, while Sam politely sat by the low table and ignored the behavior; Dean leaned himself against the courtyard door that was open just enough to let in the meager breeze.

After another moment when it seemed that Castiel was tidying himself into distraction, Dean thumped his fist against the wall next to him, drawing the others’ attention.

“Cas, catch us up. What’s happened?”

Castiel sighed gustily and seemed to deflate with it. Almost a sign of his distress, he sat down beside his bed instead of joining Sam in the sitting area. “Zachariah passed away four days ago. Sleeping sickness.”

Dean’s brow shot upward. “That old windbag that was giving you so much trouble? Seems like you should be happy.” Across the room, Sam snorted but held his tongue.

But Castiel simply shook his head, shoulders slumped. Dean frowned, eyes sweeping over Castiel. Now, nearly folded over, he seemed exhausted.

“Under different circumstances, perhaps. I cannot have respite now while the specifics of his death are still under scrutiny.” Castiel looked up, eyes sad. “His people, those that were loyal to him, they suspect me. They think I had a hand in his death, and I cannot prove to them otherwise without knowing _what_ has killed him.”

Sam leaned forward, rubbing his mouth in thought. “Those loyal to him? What turned them against you?”

“I don’t know. Zachariah, I fear he was far more politically savvy than I. He promised them things, and there is no way for me to learn of them while things remain tense.”

Dean moved closer to Castiel, arms crossed. “He croaked – it was the same as the others before, the girls?”

Castiel nodded.

Dean looked at Sam, but his brother merely looked perplexed, and even a little frustrated.

Dean cracked his neck, hoping to project an air of confidence. He shuffled closer to Castiel again, now lowering to a kneel in front of their host. He leaned forward, clapping a comforting hand to his shoulder.

“Don’t fret Cas. We’re here, and we’re gonna get to the bottom of it, in water or in fire.”

Castiel met his gaze, expression weak with the stress of this latest development, but he settled a hand over Dean’s and squeezed.

人間

It was easy to sense the rift in the grounds’ staff, those for Castiel and those suspicious of him in a cold war for majority. They were even more uneasy with Sam and Dean’s reappearance, taking them as a sign of more danger to come.

With another sleeping death and no Headhunter to attribute it to, Sam and Dean were left with little choice but to return to the only clue they had: the divination. Sam sat up the night they arrived as his brother snored softly across the room, thinking on the baffling circumstances. The spell had indicatedpresence of spirit, but knowing that hadn’t gotten them anywhere. He was still prepared to write off the whole thing as an epidemic, save for the troubling detail that no physician that had come to the compound had managed to treat or even diagnose the five victims, if what Castiel said was true.

Equally baffling was the complete lack of ties between the victims. Certainly Zachariah and the servant women Naomi and Puriah had shared a lack of allegiance to Castiel, but according to his research, the exact opposite was true of April and Muriel. Both women had apparently been exceedingly loyal to Castiel, which seemingly exonerated the lord while also obscuring any motive if it was the work of the occult.

Still, with the confirmation that the disease was not the work of a monster, Sam felt like he had more of a leg to stand on than he had before. Early the next morning he took a light breakfast before Dean had risen and returned to the compound’s archives to continue his research where he’d left it weeks prior. The archivist Kevin was earnest and helpful, if not a little suspicious of Sam’s motives. Still, he seemed genuinely concerned about Castiel and committed to helping clear his name.

Sam worked into the late morning, reading firsthand accounts of the grounds’ history, diaries that had been saved and stored dating as far back as a century prior. Some were insightful, some included little more than romantic ramblings, but nothing seemed to point to a previous plague or major tragedy in recent memory.

Tragedy, the like that Sam would suspect to cause a blight like this one, left dark stains on a place. It was bizarre to think that there was no trace of the spirit responsible for five identical deaths.

Before lunchtime, Sam pulled himself away from the dusty annals to return to their guestroom (and truthfully, he was starting to think of it as ‘their room’) in search of his brother and their host and some hot food.

The sun was high overhead when he slid open the door to their room, and even with the courtyard doors opened wide to free almost the entire west-facing wall, the room was bathed in comfortable afternoon shadow, the courtyard a box of burning afternoon sun past the shaded veranda. Though the room was quiet, it was not empty.

Against the wall that bordered Castiel’s room was an alcove with a mounted game board pressed into the recess. Dean leaned an elbow on the table, seemingly asleep, though his sword was cradled across his lap and the way his other fist curled and flexed inside his tunic fold signaled that he was in fact awake.

Castiel stood before him, back to Sam, leaning on his own sheathed sword, examining Dean. In the silence, Sam could not guess what they’d been discussing, nor why they were apparently choosing to sit in the dark.

He paused beside the lantern positioned beside the hall door and lit the flame and turned it higher until Castiel was throwing shadow over his brother. The lord glanced back with a smile, and finally Sam cleared his throat.

“Suiting up for battle?”

Castiel chuckled. “Your brother was telling me about how he procured his sword. I didn’t think Gordo was making swords any longer. He retired when the regime was handed down, I had thought.”

It was Sam’s turn to laugh as Dean reacted to the exchange with nothing more than a smirk, eyes still closed. Sam’s voice lilted, “Hope he wasn’t playing himself up too much. Gordo was something of an uncle to us, friend of our dad’s. Bobby taught us how to fight when dad wasn’t around.”

“Bobby?”

Dean cleared his throat, tossing Sam a withering look. Sam smirked.

Dean said, “Gordo’s name before he took _his_ master’s name and stepped up from apprentice. His family name is Singer.”

Castiel nodded thoughtfully. “It’s easy to forget that there are people behind all those titles.”

Sam snorted. “Sometimes. I’m not so convinced the Warlord is a person.”

Castiel turned toward Sam, smiling ruefully. “Oh he is indeed. My cousin is as human as he is proud. His need to impress his father eclipses that of anyone else I’ve ever met.”

Sam glanced at Dean quickly, but then looked away. Castiel watched him closely.

Dean cleared his throat. “Guess even a tyrant’s got his hang-ups. You learn anything new Sammy?”

Sam almost expected the shift in subject. “Not yet, though Kevin was very helpful. I took a break for food.”

Castiel startled, like he’d just realized it was midday and time to be taking a meal, rather than huddling in the dark, in privacy, with one of his guests. Sam was not about to point out to Dean that _he_ ought to be speaking to the staff now instead of lounging about like a prince.

“Yes of course. Let me fetch Meg.”

Sam stepped out of the way as Castiel moved to the door and stepped out into the hallway, voice raised in summoning. Sam moved toward the courtyard doors, appearing to busy himself. Covertly, he watched Dean, a bemused smile on his brother’s face as his green eyes tracked the movements of their host.

Sam tried to smother his smile, squinting as he looked back out into the sun-bleached, empty courtyard. Apparently subtlety was an art lost on both his brother and Castiel, though Sam was sure they were both fully aware of one another’s fondness. His brother had never bothered to hide his interest in lovers before, though Sam suspected Dean’s attraction had already moved beyond the physical. And Castiel, in his apparent lack of ability to shield any of his multitudinous thoughts, clearly reciprocated. It might as well have been a play production unfolding before him, with the entire compound as its audience.

Sam pressed his fist to his mouth, back to both men, in an effort not to laugh.

人間

_Four days, Castiel._

The dinner hour had passed while he’d been shut away in the Great Hall with his four remaining councilmen. Samandriel had appeared to summon him away from his review of proposed territory grain harvests just before Rachel would have inquired about their meal, and escorted him to the closed meeting room where Inias, Bartholomew, Ephraim and Metatron waited.

Castiel could feel the hollow in his stomach that should signal need for a meal, but all he could feel was churning unrest.

The return of the Winchesters was evidently enough to tip the disquiet festering on the estate grounds into simmering panic, and it was all Metatron needed to pin Castiel. Given the situation, anyone could send word to higher authorities to look into the rash of deaths in his house. With the right greased palms and cleverly worded tales, any of Castiel’s enemies could easily make a case for having him dismissed. Punishment was hardly the greatest threat should that come to fruition.

Castiel loved his position. He’d embraced his unofficial exile and learned to love the Farlands, this wild land so far from the false glamour of High Court. In many ways, this territory suited Castiel’s sensibilities far better than the place of his birth.

Now, Metatron saw his opportunity to use the power vacuum left by Zachariah’s death to take all of that away from Castiel. Given even half the chance, he’d likely succeed. If Sam and Dean were not able to put the sickness to a stop in the next four days, Metatron would send word for a court emissary to come and survey the situation at the estate. If he could make Castiel look like an unhinged, power-mad autocrat (and Metatron did so have a way with words), it would be the end for Castiel.

Castiel stepped down into his private sanctuary, feet slipping into his courtyard sandals and shuffling toward his gazing pool. Many nights, his retreat into solace had begun with his small family of koi, but he had the aching suspicion that not even they would calm him tonight. There was little more he could ask of Sam and Dean than to keep digging, to keep looking for an answer to their problem; the last thing he felt entitled to was asking them to rush when they did not need to help in the first place.

Feeling listless, Castiel sank to a seat on one of the large rocks arranged around the rim of the gazing pool. His fish were idle, water surface placid as the lack of light had cajoled the fish into sleep. For a while, he stared at them as they floated through the dark water – what he might give to trade places with them tonight.

Behind him, the slide of wood paneling sounded from the guestroom, accompanied by voices. Sam and Dean must be returning from their dinner, wherever they had taken it. When he’d left them in the afternoon, they had gone to speak with whichever servants were willing to talk to them in the hopes of uncovering something they’d missed earlier in the month.

A second, louder slide sounded and then the padding of feet on the veranda as someone joined him outside.

“Cas?”

The lord smiled ruefully at the water, body still. “Hello, Dean.”

There was a pause, and the soft whisper of cloth, and finally the slide and thud of a door closing. Then there were footsteps.

“What are you doing out here? Done with all your lordly business?” Dean’s voice was cautious, the joke too tentative to sound natural.

Castiel’s ennui must have been more obvious than he intended. “In a manner of speaking. I was not able to finish my perusal of the proposed harvest schedules, but I fear I will be of no more use tonight.”

Dean moved around into his line of sight and finally Castiel raised his eyes from the gazing pool. Dean was leaning against the bamboo fence on the other side of the pool, watching him closely. Feeling his scrutiny, Castiel looked away again.

“Did something happen Cas?”

Castiel felt a chuckle bubble in his throat, but it withered out as a sigh. Restless under Dean’s attention, he leaned down and dipped a finger into the water, startling the fish into darting away. “Nothing that should concern you.”

There was a pause, and then a terse _Cas._

Castiel shut his eyes, stolid.

He could hear Dean push away from the bamboo, the slide of his sandals in the dirt. A soft thud made Castiel open his eyes again and startle to find Dean kneeling directly beside him, face pinched in worry.

“What happened?”

Faced with Dean’s insistence, there was no way Castiel could refuse to answer. “Metatron has given me until the end of this week to put a stop to the blight. If I cannot do that, he is going to send word to the Warlord.” Before Dean could interrupt, Castiel continued, voice more pinched. “He will make it look like I am responsible, and have me removed from my charge.”

Dean’s mouth gaped like the news was unfathomable.

“That other weasel in your council? What’s he playing at?”

Castiel barked a humorless laugh. “He is far more devious than Zachariah. He also has grander designs on climbing the ranks. He would have my job if given the chance, and with Zachariah gone, there is less in his way.”

“But why would anyone believe that horse shit over your word?”

Castiel studied Dean’s face for a moment. The man was angry, incensed even, eyes brighter with the reflection of the lantern from Castiel’s room and his own vigor.

“I thought you hated politicians, Dean. Surely you know that the truth is not what moves mountains.” Dean looked prepared to object so Castiel shook his head. “My cousin’s love for me is not greater than his love of order – if one of us... if one of his worker bees isn’t working the way he thinks we should, he will replace us.”

Dean snorted, perhaps at the metaphor, but his expression quickly sobered. He was silent for a moment, and then, “We’ll get it done, Cas. If we have to give up sleep, we’ll figure this out before he can go running to your cousin.”

Castiel shook his head. “I appreciate your efforts Dean but I cannot ask more of you than I already have. I am lucky that you even arrived when you did; no doubt Metatron thought his arbitrary deadline would arrive before you did.”

“Cas, stop. You’re our friend, we’re going to help you no matter what it takes.”

Castiel sat upright, color high in his cheeks, face hot. He could feel his hands tremble and he stowed them in his lap. Dean was so sure, so cavalier about his and Sam’s sacrifices. Surely by now they could be on their way to another job, one that paid more, one that had a ready solution – on their way just as they’d been when the Headhunter was gone.

Sam, and Dean with him, would leave when this was finished too.

Irreverent, beautiful Dean, with his callous remarks and lack of respect for social moray. Dean, who was brave, who killed monsters and doted on his horse and loved whiskey. Dean, who had so thoroughly bewitched Castiel that his heart was lost to all others.

Dean, who Castiel could not have, knelt in the dirt pledging his time and toil like the effort was nothing to make sure Castiel would not lose his livelihood, his _life_.

Castiel whispered, knowing his voice would crack. “Why are you so determined to help me?”

Dean’s lips quirked up to one side, head cocked. “Come on Cas, I think you know.”

What a frustrating man.

Castiel reached out, hooking a hand around Dean’s neck to pull him in. The other man seemed to expect it and his hands reached up to steady himself on Castiel’s shoulders as Castiel leaned forward, mouth seeking out Dean’s in a forceful kiss. It was at once incendiary and a relief, to finally have his lips on Dean’s after thinking about it for so many nights.

Shuffling forward on his knees, Dean’s hands slid up Castiel’s neck and into his hair, clutching his head and pulling him more surely into his grasp until Castiel was forced to wrap his arms around Dean’s neck for balance. Dean’s tongue was clever, questing, wasting no time in tasting the seam of Castiel’s lips and pushing further into his mouth. His hands pulled at the thick, dark strands of Castiel’s forever unruly hair.

It was exquisite, and only the ghost of what Castiel craved.

Incensed, Castiel dragged his mouth away, shivering at the scrape of Dean’s teeth on his lower lip. Using Dean’s shoulders he pushed himself to his feet and pulled Dean up with him, backing away from the gazing pool and toward his open room. There was one lamp lit in his room to guide them, and for a brief moment Castiel could not help but pull Dean against him entirely, reveling in the solid line of their bodies pressed together. Dean must have approved, because he groaned quietly and his lips fell to Castiel’s jaw.

Breath harsh, Castiel grabbed Dean’s hand and led him back, skin burning where Dean had kissed him, nerves alight. He almost fumbled as he stepped out of his shoes backwards up onto the veranda, and Dean clearly noticed because he chuckled. Castiel grabbed at him, helpless to hide his grin as Dean too fumbled to get his sandals off. They traipsed backwards across the room’s threshold until they were finally inside, and then Dean was dragging him back into his arms, nudging his chin aside to set his teeth to Castiel’s pulse; Castiel tilted his head back with a guttural groan.

“Wanted this since I saw you, Cas.” The words were pressed into his skin, written in scrapes and swipes of tongue.

Frustrated with the admission, Castiel dragged Dean’s mouth back to his, pushing him backwards toward his bed (and Castiel was enormously grateful that Rachel must have come to set it up for him when he’d been away).

“You left me, and I could think of nothing else. I longed for you.” Dean gasped against him, dragging their hips together.

Castiel couldn’t repress another shudder as Dean once more scraped his teeth over his jaw. “You have me now, my lord.”

With a strangled groan, Castiel shoved Dean down onto his plush, padded mattress, kneeling over him; his legs bracketed Dean’s full thighs, and he immediately slid a hand beneath Dean’s head, dragging him up to meet his lips in another rough kiss. He could not complain as Dean’s hands pushed at his folded tunic and sash, pulling at them until they loosened and he could push the shirt down Castiel’s arms.

They undressed in an uncoordinated slide of limbs, lips dragging over skin as they contorted to kick their clothing away until they were both naked. No sooner were they free than Castiel was pushing them both into position across the large mattress and grabbing Dean’s hips so that he could rut against him.

Dean inhaled sharply as their cocks slid together, fingers scoring down Castiel’s back while his other hand tugged at his dark hair, locking Castiel against him for a moment. Too distracted to kiss, Castiel licked across Dean’s rough cheek, falling on his neck like it were carrion. For a blissful moment, they rutted together as strangled sighs eked their way from Dean’s throat.

Clearly he shared in Castiel’s impatience. Looking up in the low light, Castiel released Dean’s hip to reach for the small lantern set beside his bedclothes. His fingers fell on the cool metal, fiddling blindly to pull the glass cylinder away and dip his fingers into the castor oil.

The clatter made Dean’s head turn and then he hummed, clearly reading Castiel’s intentions. Almost as if in approval, Dean spread his legs so that Castiel could sink between them, friction making them both gasp.

For a tense moment, Castiel breathed, oiled fingers twitching as he reached for Dean but stopped just short of his skin, leaning in the blankets instead. Unable to parse the intensity of suddenly having what he’d wanted for weeks, Castiel drew deep breaths and pressed his face into Dean’s neck.

Would this all fall apart? Would he have a few days of bliss, only to be dragged away by the Warlord’s men? Worse still, would he be allowed to bring his dreaming to life, just in time to watch Dean ride off again? Both outcomes seemed more likely than any sort of happy end, and Castiel had to swallow around the knot of regret in his throat.

Hands stroked over his arms and up into his hair, and he felt the press of Dean’s nose to his cheek.

“It’s all right Cas, I’ve got you.”

The lord drew a trembling breath and sought Dean’s mouth with a yearning sigh.

***

Dean held Castiel’s forearms in a tight grip as the other man rose over him, shifting to his knees so that he could balance over Dean’s prone body. Knowing he had his full attention, Dean couldn’t help but arch his chest upward, smirking at the way Castiel gasped quietly. Dean was fully aware that he was attractive; he’d honed his ability to unravel a bedmate with copious practice. Nothing that happened tonight would be new for Dean.

Except, perhaps, the significance of it all, if the way his heart seemed to pound harder was any indication.

Castiel, at first so ravenous, now seemed unsure of himself as his slick fingers trailed over Dean’s thigh. Dean’s breath hitched when those same fingers wrapped around his aching cock, stroking surely. It was fantastic, unrivaled, but Dean knew it was also stalling.

Castiel was suddenly afraid of something, as surely as he seemed to need this from Dean. The Hunter had made it habit to never let his dalliances progress beyond the physical. If he laid down for a man (or even a woman, on one adventurous occasion), it was because Dean wanted it. Taking could be just as enjoyable as giving, he’d decided, but it was not a sign of surrendered control.

In this moment though, with Castiel quivering above him as his fingers inched lower, caressing his sac, pulling groans from Dean’s chest, power appeared to be the commodity in play. Castiel seemed to need the control of the aggressor for reasons Dean couldn’t begin to guess at, but bafflingly, it didn’t worry Dean at all.

For Castiel, he could hand the control over.

Rising up on his elbows, Dean reached one hand up to hold Castiel’s face. He drew his gaze until Castiel was watching him, though his hand never stopped fondling, teasing.

Dean grinned, thumb stroking fondly over Castiel’s cheekbone. “Shy, my lord?”

Castiel drew a breath, like he was preparing an answer, but said nothing. His eyes did not leave Dean’s face.

Dean rolled up to a seat, taking Castiel’s face into both hands, drawing him in for a kiss. It was teasingly chaste, almost sweet.

“Go ahead, Cas. It’s good, I want you to.”

Which part of that Cas needed to hear Dean was not sure, but it was apparently enough, because Cas’s dry hand came up to grasp Dean’s head and pull him into another violent kiss. He pressed his body weight into Dean, forcing him to lie back as Castiel draped himself over Dean.

Without pause, he felt fingers caressing his hole and Dean hummed in approval, head pushed to the side as Castiel’s teeth bit down on his neck, coaxing bruises into the skin. Sammy would have to keep his composure tomorrow. Come to think of it, he probably had to keep his composure now, with the courtyard doors open and only a wall in between their rooms. Dean chuckled at the thought, but it plummeted into a long groan as Castiel pushed a finger into him.

Castiel opened him efficiently, no time for patience or tender lovemaking. He pressed his fingers into Dean deftly, caressing his insides with the experience of one who had lain with a man before, and Dean’s whole body convulsed when he pressed against his prostate.

The room filled with their groans, loud, when Castiel pushed into him, kneeling between Dean’s thighs. Dean’s head strained back as his whole body arched and he wrapped his legs up and around Castiel so that his heels dug into the small of his back. Dean pressed against him, bringing him fully into his body and dragging Castiel down until they were a solid line from groin to mouth.

There was a shuffling outside the hall door, and Dean opened his mouth to make a snide comment about Castiel’s maids being kinky voyeurs, but it was cut off with a loud groan as Cas rolled into him, separating from Dean just enough to thrust back in.

“ _Fuck,_ Cas.”

He forgot about the retreating footsteps in the hall as Castiel set a smooth rhythm, shallow strokes pressing in deep and brutal. Dean’s heels pressed tighter; Castiel thrust harder.

Dean moaned with abandon as Castiel’s punishing rolls into him lengthened. Castiel pulled away and reared onto his knees, dragging Dean up to rest on his thighs. The color was high in Castiel’s cheeks, his hair more disheveled than Dean had ever seen it, and sweat ran down his temples. He looked undone and Dean moaned as his cock twitched in appreciation for the sight. A moment later Castiel’s hands took a vice hold to Dean’s hips and began pulling him into his thrusts.

Dean didn’t try to temper his shout when Castiel took hold of him, stroking in time with his thrusts. He didn’t quiet his gasps when Castiel leaned over him, fucking into him in short, hard jabs and whispering ragged encouragement into his ear. He did not stifle his stuttered groan when he came over his stomach and Castiel’s loose fist.

When Dean raised his hands to take hold of Castiel’s face, he realized they were shaking, and he gave a startled laugh. Sex had never felt so passionate, so profound in intensity, and he knew that it was everything to do with Castiel. He cradled Castiel’s jaw, holding him close to murmur words into his mouth. Sweat fell from Castiel’s nose onto Dean’s cheek, and Dean shivered, feeling more naked than he ever had before.

“C’mon Cas. Give it up for me sweetheart.”

Castiel choked off a moan, high and wrecked. “Dean.”

“Shh, that’s it.”

Castiel pulled out, gasping, and took hold of himself. Dean took one hand from where it had slid back to hold Castiel’s head, reaching down and closing his fingers over Castiel’s, adding more pressure.

“ _Dean._ ”

Dean grinned into Castiel’s cheek, nosing at his temple. “I’ve got you Cas.”

Castiel’s breath hitched and then he groaned, loud and undone, seed spilling over onto his and Dean’s locked fingers. It spurted onto Dean’s stomach, pooling warm and sticky. Dean pulled his hand back and brought his fingers to his mouth, licking the spend away. Then he did the same for Castiel, never looking away from the euphoric exhaustion of Castiel’s expression.

For a time Castiel hovered over him, sagging and breathing deeply. Dean mimicked him, catching his breath where he lay on the plush, damp mattress, clean hand idly dragging back and forth across Castiel’s thigh. Lazily, he reached out to grab a piece of their discarded clothing to wipe his stomach clean. He felt like he might drift off if Castiel would finally lie down beside him, but he was content to wait. When he felt a hand close over his on Castiel’s leg, he focused on the other man’s face again.

Castiel looked tired, which was to be expected, but there was something raw and hurting on his face, so incongruent with their passion from mere minutes ago. Dean recalled Castiel’s desperation and urgency, his hesitation. Whatever was going through his head was playing out across his face now, in the tight press of his fingers on Dean.

Dean would never make anyone talk when he himself resisted it at every turn. Fortunately, he knew exactly what he preferred when words seemed like too much effort. Swallowing around his concern, he sat up and opened his arms, eyes soft.

“C’mere.”

Castiel fell into him, burying his face in Dean’s neck, arms winding tight around Dean’s shoulders. Dean shifted their legs carefully until Castiel was no longer kneeling between his thighs, shimmied them to the side away from the dampest part of the mattress, and then with soft strokes idling up and down Castiel’s shoulder blades, he pulled him back until they were both lying down.

Softly, he nosed over Castiel’s temple, mouth too slack to be pressing kisses, and lightened the pressure of his hands until the drag of his fingers pulled shivers and goosebumps from his lover. Castiel’s hold tightened, and his lips parted against Dean as a breath gusted against his shoulder.

“I’ve got you, Cas.”

人間

They slept soundly past the sunrise, only stirring when the grounds came to life with morning chores. Even then, they were loath to rise, the open courtyard doors providing soft light that didn’t quite penetrate their sultry cocoon. The sun had not yet burned away the cool of night and a much needed breeze wafted into the room.

After a few long, idyllic moments of sleepy snuffling and soft kisses, Dean decided all the parts of him were awake enough to enjoy an encore of the previous evening. Castiel chuckled, might have even giggled, as Dean shifted atop him and rubbed their naked bodies together, rolling into him lazily. Neither of them was animated enough to do more than fondle and kiss the other, but Castiel thought he would have been glad to spread his legs for Dean if the occasion presented itself. Perhaps he would still get the chance that night.

Dean took hold of them both after coating his fingers in the castor oil from the open lantern, stroking firmly, slow in his attention. Castiel appreciated his lack of rush, his comfort in letting the moment linger as they kissed and gasped into each other’s skin.

When they were sated and Dean had collapsed next to him once more, he turned his head, the tips of their noses brushing.

“Do you provide all of your clients such excellent service?”

Dean snorted, goosing Castiel’s side. He flinched, laughing.

“Nah, only the ones I really like.”

“And then you disappear into the horizon as they swoon after you.”

Dean held his gaze, his smile never abating. “Maybe. I don’t go back to check, it’s just sex.”

Castiel did not want the mood to break, did his best to not let the hurt claw past his throat. “Like this.”

Dean seemed to see past his ruse though, leaned in to nuzzle against him more surely. “Not like this.”

In so many words, Castiel felt his worry shatter, the offhanded way Dean dismissed his fears a salve. Buoyed, Castiel rolled into him, peppering kisses all across Dean’s face until the other man couldn’t keep himself from laughing and pinching at Castiel to fight him off like a boy with an overexcited puppy.

***

It was a little longer before somebody’s stomach grumbled and they ambled about the room to dress themselves appropriately. While Castiel disappeared into the hall to _find Rachel and procure breakfast_ , Dean ducked out onto the veranda and went one door down before shoving the door open without bothering to knock.

Sam was awake and apparently less than pleased to see him, leveling a baleful glare at his older brother.

Dean strolled in without a care, setting about changing into fresher clothes. “What Sammy, bad night?”

“Really Dean?“

“I’m concerned for you, little brother.”

“You’re snide and sexed up is what you are.”

Dean sent his brother a please smile. “Well, that too.”

“You couldn’t even _try_ to keep it down? You knew I was right next door. Did you leave the courtyard doors open?” Sam seemed so distressed that Dean burst out laughing as he shrugged into new pants and folded his tunic into the waist band.

There was a knock at the door before Dean could retort, and Sam’s clipped _Yes?_ prompted the door to open and admit Castiel. He seemed to take in the tense unhappiness radiating from Sam and glanced at Dean in question, which only made Dean chuckle.

Sam rolled his eyes and sighed loudly, gesturing between them. “Look, don’t misunderstand, I’m very pleased for you two, it took long enough, but that doesn’t mean I want to _hear_ it!”

Castiel’s face immediately reddened as he gaped at Sam and then Dean, and Dean’s laughter redoubled until he was leaning over and holding his stomach.

A twin call of _Dean!_ made him look up at both his brother and lover. For a moment, he felt a warm wash of contentment run through him, glancing between Sam’s stubborn displeasure and Castiel’s bashful confusion.

“Sam will get over it. Food?”

With something to distract him, Sam unruffled as Castiel moved to sit at the low table to the side of the room. Sam joined him on the opposite side, already dressed. Dean opened both courtyard doors wide before joining them and taking a lazy seat beside Castiel.

Sam cleared his throat, apparently ready to change the subject. “So get this, I spent a while yesterday looking over the historical archives, and I really don’t think this is a haunting.”

Castiel leaned forward. “Why not?”

“Well for one thing, the sort of death that might result in a haunting that would kill so many people isn’t the sort of thing people just forget about. Even if nobody alive at the time was still around, there would be _some_ kind of evidence in your archives. Kevin was helpful, he uncovered a lot of firsthand accounts of people that lived here over the last hundred odd years and no one ever mentioned anybody dying horribly or strangely.”

Castiel tilted his head, squinted; Dean was beginning to find it very endearing.

“And that means there isn’t a ghost?”

Dean leaned over and planted his elbows on the table. “What he’s sayin’ Cas is that the sort of deaths that result in a haunting that could take out five people are usually traumatic. The person hanging around has some sort of vendetta or unfinished business. If it was that kind of haunting, there’d have to be something in the archives or local memory to back it up. That sort of shit never just disappears.”

Cas nodded slowly, absorbing the information. “Then what?”

Sam frowned uneasily, hands dropping to his thighs. “Well, that’s what we’re still trying to figure out. It might not be a ghost, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a curse or something that someone did leave behind. Just because it’s not someone who died doesn’t mean there isn’t a malevolent spirit around.”

“You think the house is cursed?”

Castiel’s alarmed tone made Dean reach to rub a hand across his back. “It could just be a cursed object Cas. We’ve happened across ‘em plenty of times. Someone got pissed at someone else, put a curse on their stuff, then died. Just because the people involved pass away doesn’t mean the curse does too.”

Sam nodded. “That’s what I figure, it’s our best explanation at this point. We need to try to get the people here to talk to us. I know you only moved here two years ago Cas, but some of these people must have family roots in the area. They’re our best shot of figuring this out.”

Castiel gave an answering nod, though he looked unsure. “I understand. I will try to encourage them to be candid, but I fear they are no happier with me than they are with strangers at the moment.”

Dean leaned forward, catching Castiel’s attention. He made sure their eyes were firmly locked before his grinned, reassuring.

“Don’t worry Cas. We can be pretty charming when we want to be.”

Castiel seemed unable to prevent the fine blush across his cheeks or his embarrassed smile. “I’ve become intimately aware.”

Sam slapped the table just as Dean winked.

“Ugh guys, come on!”

人間

Castiel felt oddly settled, despite the fact that an explanation for the sleeping deaths had yet to be found. With Sam and Dean back, the idea of ending the plague once and for all was almost believable. He had missed both Winchesters more intensely than he’d expected to; in the short week that they’d stayed to kill the Headhunter, they had easily insinuated themselves into Castiel’s life.

Friendships were difficult to come by when he had few allies to lean on living on the premises, and even then he hesitated to believe that he could call his councilmen friends. Inias had given him enough cause to think that they might be friends if circumstances were different, true, but Bartholomew’s charisma and insistence to go out to visit the territory’s major settlements [and brothels far from the homestead’s eyes] always felt like false camaraderie. All totaled, Castiel felt the most genuine kinship with his personal servants, but the level of class would always prevent him from indulging in their friendship the way he craved. He could not ask Rachel or Meg to forget his station when they would be judged harshly for it, their livelihoods on the line; there was too much at stake and not enough to be gained by them going against social moray for him. Or at least, there had been. With Naomi and Zachariah dead, the landscape of the power balance in the lord’s estate was bound to change.

With Sam and Dean, the only person whose image could come under fire was his own, and he cared not for what Metatron thought of his lax social policy. Given recent events, making friends with a few hunters was the least of his council’s concerns.

Of course Sam was a good friend, but it would be dishonest to claim his thoughts had not been filled with Dean in the weeks that they’d been gone. Having him back now had brought a joy that Castiel could not describe. Now, in the wake of their night and morning together, the thought of Dean sent a warm contentment through Castiel, a deep sense of satisfaction simmering in his chest that he’d never felt before. It seemed that Dean was to thank for a whole host of new, pleasant feelings and experiences.

Of course, their return did not mean that Castiel could give up his daily responsibilities. The hunters had been milling around the grounds since afternoon, speaking with the oldest members of the compound staff about area legends and possible sources of a curse. As outlandish as it sounded, Dean and Sam had a reputation that preceded them across the country it seemed, and they had not been wrong about the Headhunter; Castiel was willing to trust their theory.

Now, as dusk fell on the grounds, fatigue was beginning to creep over him. The sense of lethargy that encroached with the setting of the sun was not unusual, though the North Wing did seem particularly peaceful today. It might have something to do with the ending of the work week, as many of the staff tended to spend their weekend evenings traveling to the closest town for some leisure away from home; it was difficult living and working in the same place and not falling prey to monotony, as Castiel well understood. He did not begrudge them their escape, much as his more conservative councilmen insisted that he should.

The stack of missives from across his territory had finally dwindled and he deemed it acceptable to set them aside for the evening and go in search of his guests and a meal. He had dismissed his official courier an hour ago to let him enjoy his evening. The staff agreed upon who must stay behind to serve Castiel and the council, so at least one person would be on hand. He shuffled back from the low table and stood, hearing a pop in his shoulder. He stretched and headed to the door at the back of the room, sharing the hallway with the servants quarters, bath chambers and storage closets.

There was faint light leaking across the floorboards from the high windows set in the wall at the end of the hallway. It was enough to see by, but past the time that a servant would typically light the sconces; his theory that most everyone had left for the evening was all but confirmed.

As he turned away toward his chambers, a flicker at the corner of his eye drew his gaze back to the hall window. He blinked and then realized that another person stood in the hallway with him, though he’d heard no one approaching. That in itself was not too strange, as the staff tended to be light on their feet and adept at using the servants’ corridors to avoid the main hallways across the compound.

Squinting in the gloom, Castiel recognized Meg standing under the window beside the door to the servants’ quarters. He tilted his head.

“Meg? Why are you standing in the dark?”

Meg lifted her head, but it was difficult for Castiel to make out her expression. He moved closer, relaxed before his favored confidant.

“Has everyone else gone for the night? The sconces haven’t been lit yet.” He said it with a chuckle to keep it from sounding like censure.

As he approached her, he took in Meg’s odd posture and the tense air about her. The fact that she had not addressed him with her private endearments was unlike her. Just as he crossed into the perimeter of the servants’ room, he was staid by an unseasonal chill in the air. The house now sounded too quiet rather than peaceful, and each second that Meg seemed to stare vacantly at him signaled more alarm, a prickling on the back of his neck.

“My lord, why?”

Meg’s voice wafted across the space between them, making Castiel tense. Meg’s usually sultry tone was breathy, like she was exhausted. Her gaze trained on him and suddenly he felt like prey and she an animal of the hunt. He took a step back.

Her form lurched toward him; every fiber of his being urged _run._

Resolving to question instinct later, he turned on his socked foot quickly. Then he jerked backward and nearly lost his balance.

Meg loomed behind him, and this close he could finally see what was off about her; she was partially translucent and didn’t seem tethered to the ground. Her movements looked strange because she was apparently _floating_.

“It should have been me, Clarence.” Her voice was more powerful this close, but it echoed unnaturally off the close walls. She reached out to him and he jerked back; she let out a desolate howl and his blood curdled. He felt his throat close up in terror, eyes darting around to find the quickest exit. There was enough space to skirt around her body and run for the guestroom at the end of the hall and through to the courtyard doors. If he could get outside, he would be safer and he could run to someone for help.

With the clumsy movements of someone in sincere fear for their life, Castiel lunged into the space beside her, hugging the wall as close as possible to keep away from her. For a moment he thought he was clear and he began to run, breaths erratic.

Castiel had been trained for battle with the expectation that he may be expected to give his life for his masters. No day spent on the battlefield had ever been this terrifying.

But the guestroom door was not far, and he was a powerful runner; he could outrun her in her long skirts.

Something like ice sluiced down his back. His head jerked back even as his body continued forward as the feeling crept inward until it felt like his heart was in a vice of cold. He let out a stuttered cry, shoulders wrenching forward as his body attempted to flee the threat behind him. The sensation of eyes on his back was so strong it was like needles sticking his skin, and he dug down for his voice to call for help. The only person whose name came to mind was the woman who was supposedly his trusted help.

“M-meg—“

Her answering chuckle almost kept his legs from moving at all; it didn’t sound like her, disembodied in the cavernous space of the hall. He felt an acute sense of disconnection to his body; he urged his legs to run but he was sluggish, the stilted movements a symptom of arresting terror. Whatever was happening to him seemed to be reducing his flight instincts to the abilities of a scared drunk.

The space seemed to stretch before him, the guestroom far off as Meg seemed to occupy all the space behind him, breathing down his neck. Castiel had the inane thought that his perception of reality must be affected, because Meg surely could have caught him by now if he was really stumbling as poorly as he seemed to be.

Finally, he staggered into the guest room door and flung it open, tripping over the threshold. On his knees, he commanded his limbs to crawl but now the scent of burning poppy and incense clogged his nose and stung his airways. He felt himself convulsing, body flopping against his will, first onto his side and then, void of any sense of balance, onto his back.

Meg’s face pressed close to his, seemingly disembodied from the rest of her. Her eyes looked dead, flat in a horrible blank stare framed by her raven curls. His lungs and nasal passage burned as if he’d swallowed a torch.

Castiel screamed.

人間

As they’d suspected, there were a great many staff members that had lived in the Farlands for generations. Sam had managed to coax a few of the visibly older groundskeepers into speaking with him with varying degrees of success.

One of those people was the gardener Joshua, a kindly old man who had taken one look at Sam and ushered him to the little shed of tools to sit. Inside the small hut, big enough for just two on either side of an uncovered hearth built up below the raised floor, hot water steamed in a kettle. Joshua gestured for Sam to take a seat, wizened face smiling as he went about preparing tea in silence. Sam glanced around, glad to not be met with hostility but perplexed. As the silence lengthened, he began to fidget, clearing his throat at odd intervals.

Joshua pinned him with a stare, amused. “Well then boy stop your squirming. What is it that you wanted to ask me?”

Sam accepted the cup of tea Joshua held out to him, cautious. “I’m sure you’ve heard by now what we’re trying to find out.”

Joshua chuckled. “If there’s an old curse lying around, killing people in their sleep.”

Sam nodded.

Joshua sat back, poised with his tea in his cupped hands. “Family’s been serving the lords of the Farlands since my great grandfather came down from the north. Followed the lord of his time when the emperor surrendered to the Lord Charles and the first regime was established.   Great grandfather married a woman here and we’ve served them ever since.”

Sam nodded along with his tale, hoping it was coming to a point. If he was rude now, Joshua would be less likely to share what he knew.

“I was born here; I grew up here, like my parents before me. Of course folks are bound to have their squabbles, but that’s all they ever were. When people died it was because there was no food to eat, or swelling disease, or earthquakes. I know there are things we regular folk can’t explain, but I never saw them myself ‘til those poor girls gone to sleep and didn’t wake up.”

Sam frowned. “You thought it was something supernatural from the beginning?”

Joshua hummed, voice low and throaty as he sipped his tea. “Maybe not the first girl, but when they kept on? Not to mention all the business with that beast out in the woods? Ain’t nothing natural about any of it.”

“But you said you haven’t heard of any curses.”

Joshua shook his head. “No, and nothing the stranger either.”

Sam sighed, disappointment pulling his shoulders down. If they couldn’t explain what was going on with a curse, they had nothing to go on again.

“That brother of yours, he’s right bewitched our funny Lord ain’t he?”

Sam snorted, hand rubbing across his mouth. “You could say that. They like each other very much.”

Joshua smiled, eyes closed as if in memory. “Our lord’s a peculiar one; I’d say he don’t have the constitution for his position, but that’s only because he does his job different than the ones before him. He’s a good man, kind man. We’re all happier for it, no matter what those curmudgeons out there will tell you.”

Sam grinned, looking down at the hearth. “I think I agree. It’s a shame there are people that think he’s behind everything.”

Joshua scoffed. “Suspicious old coots, afraid for their own hides. The Lord don’t have a mean bone in his body. More like one of those love sick princes from the Epics than a killer.”

Sam chuckled, Joshua’s assessment ringing true as he thought of his brother and their host that morning, eyes glancing at one another at every opportunity.

“Your brother there better be careful the jealous ladies don’t take out their scorn in his sleep.”

Perhaps it was the fact that Joshua mentioned sleep, but the suggestion gave Sam pause. He set his cup down, heart racing at the possibility that this hunch could lead somewhere.

“What do you mean?”

“Few of the ladies that serve the council, they’ve taken a shine to the Lord. Wouldn’t be surprised if one of them took to jealousy and did something foolish.”

Sam deflated, realizing Joshua’s suggestion was innocuous.

“We’d have an old epic on our hands, wouldn’t we? Jealous woman, scorned, so angry that her spirit attacks the prince’s lover?”

Sam bolted upright. “What are you talking about?”

Joshua chuckled. “Now, now, you’re a learned boy; I know you’ve read the Tale of Ren. It’s a story, nothing true to it.”

“A woman’s spirit was able to hurt the woman she was threatened by?”

“Come now Sam, living ghosts ain’t real. It was just—“

Sam slapped the ground, cup rattling. “Living ghosts, we didn’t think of living ghosts.”

Living ghosts, the Eidolons, souls so angry or jealous that their spirits could leave their bodies in sleep and harm the subject of their ire, were a popular feature of the romantic epics. It was natural for people to believe they were legend born in the light of a campfire, but Sam knew that so many of the things that were called “legend” were actually born out of reality. He killed them for a living.

“You trying to tell me living ghosts are real?”

Joshua looked skeptical as Sam scrambled to his feet, intent on telling Dean about this realization.

“I’ve never encountered them, but they’re as real as that monster out in the forest.”

Joshua muttered _well I’ll be damned_ behind him as Sam thanked him hastily, slid into his sandals, and stumbled into a jog across the grounds toward the North Wing.

It was quiet across the grounds, but not very noticeably until he stepped out of his shoes and hurried through the entrance of the North Wing. The quiet felt palpable here, like there was a fog in the air eating the humdrum sounds of evening. Sam looked around, on guard, but there was no one in the hall across the building or down to the rear where their room’s door was just visible.

Sam padded down the hall, quick and cautious with a hand hovering near his waist where a concealed dagger was sheathed. They hadn’t taken to wearing their swords around the grounds since they’d returned, especially when they were trying not to startle the already nervous staff. He paused as he passed the hallway parallel to the front hall that ran past the bath chamber and the servants’ quarters. There was nothing, save for the peculiar smell of burning poppy.

The door to their room was open, which was odd though not particularly troubling. Taking one last glance down the hall, he stepped through the door.

He gasped at the sight greeting him.

The smell was more intense and cloying inside their room. The air felt cold, even as the doors were open to the warm summer evening, and it was dark, darker than it should have been. Dean was leaning against the wall beside the hall door, Castiel’s prone body clutched to his chest.

Sam fell to his knees beside them, one hand shaking Dean roughly while the other tore one fold of his tunic from its sash and held it over his nose, the burning smell so strong it was dizzying.

“Dean! Dean, snap out of it!”

His brother groaned, eyelids fluttering as he seemed to struggle to consciousness.

Sam looked around again, as if the threat would now be visible, but there was nothing. He shook his brother again, now examining Castiel who was ashen and damp with sweat.

“What happened?”

Dean coughed, wheezing and Sam took a deep breath and then pulled the tunic away and pressed it to Dean’s nose and mouth so that he could breathe through it.

Dean muttered something into the cloth, but it was unintelligible. Sam leaned in closer, pulling the cloth away.

“What? Can you say it again.”

Dean rasped in his ear. “Servant.”

Sam slid back, torn between pulling his brother and Castiel from the room and following his brother’s suggestion.   Ultimately though, getting them out of the room wouldn’t go far toward stopping what were now undoubtedly the effects of a vengeful spirit. Taking one last harried glance at his brother and Castiel, Sam leapt up and hurried down the back hall to the last door on the left and threw it open.

The room was empty save for one woman who was curled up in sleep in her bedroll. As Sam approached, he recognized her as one of the servants who attended to Castiel. He wasn’t certain, but he thought she was the woman Castiel referred to as ‘Meg’.

Sam took hold of her shoulders and shook. “Meg, Meg! You have to wake up!”

At once, the woman’s eyes snapped open in panic and she gasped as though she were drowning and had just broken the water’s surface.

She realized Sam was next to her and tore out of his grasp, shrieking. But Sam had little time to worry about how badly he startled the woman, because he had no idea whether she was the source of the Eidolon. Back on his feet, he hurried back to the guestroom.

The smell had greatly diminished, though it was still present, and Dean was no longer conscious. Even after he tried to shake him awake, Dean did not wake, nor did Castiel even when Sam called his name.

He heard a gasp behind him and then startled when Meg pushed him out of the way. Her concern seemed focused completely on Castiel, her hands sweeping over him as she tried to rouse him.

“It was just a dream, this wasn’t meant to...”

Sam listened to her babble to herself for a moment, sure now that she was the source of all the trouble. The people that produced ikiryo often did not do so on purpose, even if they did feel vengeful or angry; it was entirely possible Meg didn’t realize she was the person that had killed all those people.

Leaning forward, he shifted to the men’s other side, calling to Meg until she finally registered he was speaking to her.

“We should lay them down, come on.”

Meg scowled at him, though she leaned forward to pull Castiel out of Dean’s loose hold, handling him as carefully as she was able while still dragging him. Together they pulled Dean and Castiel away from the open door, and once she’d rested him carefully closer to the middle of the room, she hurried to the closet where the bedrolls were stored. She pulled out one and returned to Castiel’s side, laying it out. Sam noticed how she seemed to care little for Dean, and scowled as he retrieved the second bedroll.

“Help me move him.”

Sam looked up as Meg watched him expectantly.

“What?”

Meg scowled, gesturing to Castiel’s prone form. “Help me get him onto the bedroll.”

Returning her glare, Sam nevertheless moved around his brother to Castiel and helped Meg move him onto the soft, stuffed roll. Once he was situated, he turned on his knees and spitefully pulled the other roll closer so he could shift Dean onto it, leaving just enough space for a person to kneel between the two men.

Meg was still knelt next to Castiel when Sam turned, her fingers sweeping gently over his face, arranging his hair neatly away from his forehead. She looked genuinely distressed, and Sam saw it all fall into place.

Meg was in love with Castiel, and had killed all the women and Zachariah out of the desire to protect the lord from threat. At the very least, he knew that Zachariah and Naomi had not gotten along with Castiel and had often threatened his position. He would not be surprised to learn of a similar explanation for the other three victims.

Meg’s voice trembled, so at odds with her hard appearance, when she spoke. “When will they wake up?”

Sam looked back at his brother, brow pinched. “I don’t know.”

人間

With most of the grounds away or asleep, it was a simple matter to hide the latest turn of events. Late into the night, Sam sat between his brother and Castiel, watching over them, monitoring for changes. He sent Meg, prickly at the order, to fetch a bucket and towels so that they could wipe the men down and keep them as comfortable as possible given the circumstances. The smell of poppy and funerary incense clung to their clothes. Even after they finally changed the men into fresh clothing, the smell lingered. Sam realized why, belatedly: Meg smelled of it too.

While it would have been safer to enlist a third pair of eyes and ears, it was too risky to inform someone else of what had happened. If they told the wrong person, news would spread like wildfire and the less honorable members of the estate would use it to their advantage. At the very least, this swayed Meg when Sam told her in no uncertain terms that she must resist sleep. Even when the desire became too strong, she could not sleep if Sam was not awake, a task not easily done in the middle of the night. While Sam doubted that she’d harm someone again that night, it was better to be safe than sorry. If she showed any signs of distress or anything odd happened while she slept, Sam would be able to wake her immediately.

As daylight crept closer, and Meg finally succumbed to sleep, Sam continued the watch, too worried to sleep. He studied the woman now that she could not protest, chin to her chest as she sat slumped beside Castiel. Even in her sleep, her hand rested limply on his wrist. It was clear as the summer was hot that she cared deeply for him. It begged the question then: why would she attack the person she so clearly loved?

Sam was still not certain of the course of events, at any rate. He had not pressed her for answers yet, knowing that she’d be just as likely to lie as tell him the truth. His best bet was to wait until she was pliant enough to assure Sam she’d tell him the truth. If he was lucky, he could question her while she was still groggy from sleep.

His opportunity came when the sun had just risen, spilling light through the windows atop the courtyard wall. Sam rose gracelessly, long limbs tangled and stiff, and opened the doors, hoping the fresh air might invigorate him. The noise woke Meg.

Sam did not sit against immediately, keeping his distance from the servant. If she felt less pinned by him, she’d be more likely to answer truthfully.

After enough time had passed that Sam was sure Meg would not fall back to sleep, he spoke quietly.

“Do you remember anything from last night?”

Meg looked up at him, radiating fear and frustration. “I was sleeping. Everybody left for the evening and I chose to stay behind. Then you woke me up, and my lord was...” She petered off, looking at Castiel, grief-stricken.

Sam nodded, gentle. “Right... Last night you mentioned dreams. Did you dream about Castiel last night?”

Meg seemed to growl at the accusation, face pinched. “I don’t think so? It’s possible but...” She broke off, a noise of frustration gusting past her pouting lips. “I would never want to hurt him. I...”

“I understand. I’m not accusing you of trying to hurt Cas. I just want to understand what happened.”

Meg seemed to quiver, resuming her careful petting along Castiel’s arm, his face. She seemed so genuinely distressed that Sam was further convinced of his theory: Meg’s spirit had been the one to kill all those people and then hurt Castiel, and maybe Dean, but she hadn’t done so on purpose.

Sam wanted to ask where Dean factored in to all of this, and whether or not she had attacked him too. But he was sure that Meg would not remember, and even if she did, would not admit to it. What if she’d attacked Dean, rather than Castiel, and the lord had somehow fallen victim as well. Dean and Castiel were together when Sam found them, but Sam was sure of little else.

He resumed his spot on the floor with a sigh, this time sitting to the other side of Dean’s prone form, leaving the space between Dean and Castiel empty.

***

The first thing he felt upon waking was the dry burn in his throat. His whole body felt depressed, weighed down like he’d been buried after going three rounds with an angry bear, or a wrestler – a wrestling bear.

Dean coughed and then felt his whole body curl in on itself as the cough overtook him. There was a sudden shuffling beside him and then he was being hauled up into an upright position and patted roughly on the back.

“Dean, Dean!”

Another cough rattled him before he could respond. A cup was pushed into his hand and without looking, Dean raised it to his lips and swallowed it down. He gasped as the burn finally subsided and he took a full breath.

When he finally opened his eyes, the first thing that stuck out was Sam’s face looming huge beside his as he fretted over Dean like a mother hen. After barely a few seconds, Dean grumbled and swatted at him, pushing him away to give Dean more space. Sam huffed, but seemed more pleased than anything else.

Then Dean looked to his other side, and realized Castiel and Meg were there too. Meg looked wary, even accusatory, which, what the fuck was her problem? Then he realized Castiel was out cold, and the events of the night before came rushing back to him.

“Shit, Cas.”

He fumbled off the bedroll, blankets tangling in his legs as he scrambled into the space between the bedrolls and leaned over Castiel. Meg protested but he ignored her, sweeping one arm beneath Castiel’s shoulders to lift him slightly for inspection. Dean used his other hand to sweep over Castiel, checking his vital signs, resting a hand to his cheek. For a moment he felt overwhelmed with fear; then he recalled more of the night’s events, and his head snapped up.

“You.”

Meg scowled, apparently ready to shove him away from Castiel. “What about _me_ , Master Winchester?”

Dean twitched, barely leashing a growl in response; she spat his name like he was no better than dirt.

“You killed those people, and now Cas...” Dean trailed off, looking down at the unconscious man and his arms. He took a steadying breath and laid a hand across Castiel’s face, fingers tracing his pulse; it was rhythmic and present.

Meg seemed to falter at that, looking to Castiel with panic. “He’s not dead.”

Sam intervened before Dean could answer, hunkering down at the foot of Castiel’s bedroll.

“Calm down, and someone tell me exactly what happened last night. Maybe between the two of you, we’ll have the full story.”

Dean fixed Meg with a hard glare, which she returned unbothered. Dean spoke through a clenched jaw. “We were talking with the older servants. You and I split up. I finished talking to the old lady that cleans up the cemetery and other parts of the grounds. After that, I came back here to find Cas. I heard him scream, and found him in here catatonic. I saw a spectral of _her_ hovering over him before it disappeared.”

Meg whimpered, though it was at odds with the angry moue of her lips. “I didn’t try to kill him.”

Sam’s hand shot out, placating. “You may not have tried to, on purpose. Have you heard of a living ghost, Meg?”

Dean’s head whipped around to watch his brother, frowning. Meg looked perplexed, disbelieving.

“From what, the romances, like the Tale of Ren?”

Sam nodded quickly. “Right, just like that. Those things, things that people think are just stories, a lot of them are real. My brother and I, we hunt them down and stop them from hurting people. People that produce a living ghost don’t know they’re doing it, and they don’t mean to hurt people. They manifest out of intense rage or jealousy.”

Meg now looked unsettled, glancing between Castiel, still in Dean’s arms, and Sam. “You trying to tell me I went ghost and hurt Lord Castiel, ponytail?”

Sam hesitated, looking regretful. Dean grunted at him, and he shot a glare back at his brother. “It would explain what has happened.”

Dean left Sam to field Meg’s apparent sudden crisis, focusing his attention on Castiel. The man was ashen, though his skin was still warm. His face was completely slack, like there was nothing interrupting his sleep; that worried Dean more than if he’d looked pained. They had seen Naomi in the hours before she passed away. She too had been pale and peaceful, though she’d been significantly cooler to the touch. Castiel was definitely in the throes of the sleeping sickness now, and it was hard to say what would happen next, given that they had identified Meg as the cause.

With his muscles still weak from lack of recovery, Dean gently set Castiel down onto the mattress, his free hand sliding down his arm to find Castiel’s hand. It was still warm, like the rest of him, and Dean felt relief, what little there was, choke him.

A knock at the door, though too distant to be their own, startled all of them. Tensely, they all exchanged looks. Finally, Sam rose, and moved to the door, pausing to listen. Someone was clearly in the hallway, but they were quiet. Taking a visible deep breath, Sam slid the door open and poked his head out; Dean held his breath.

Sam uttered a quiet word and then stepped aside as Castiel’s servant Rachel appeared in the doorway. She seemed to take in the scene and her face fell to worry, but Sam ushered her in and closed the door before she could react further. Meg was taciturn, apparently unwilling to incriminate herself in filling Rachel in, so the task fell to Sam.

Rachel listened, worry, confusion, and fear all rolling across her usually composed features. She glanced at Meg, Castiel and Dean in turn, but she never turned a glare on Meg, even after her culpability was confirmed. Rachel took a moment to compose herself as she set a concerned hand on Castiel’s blanketed calf. Dean had probably interacted with Rachel more than any of the rest of Castiel’s staff, and her loyalty was unquestionable. Unlike Meg though, she seemed to feel nothing more than fealty and fondness for the lord.

Rachel would be instrumental from keeping word from leaking until it became unavoidable. If Castiel did not wake by the following day (and Dean steadfastly refused to acknowledge this possibility), the councilmen would come calling.

But if it did become necessary to inform them, there seemed better ways of going about it than others.

Dean watched Castiel even as he called Rachel’s attention, interrupting his brother.

“The guy on the council, the one that Cas took his combat tour with.”

Rachel hummed, though still looked perplexed when Dean looked up. Sam was similarly mystified.

“The guy, with the long hair! Has the name with the ‘eye’ in it?” Dean couldn’t quite keep his voice from verging on the hysterical.

Rachel sobered. “Master Inias?”

Dean took a breath, nodded. “Yeah, him. Tell him, only him, if you have to. He at least doesn’t have it out for Cas.”

Rachel was quiet for long enough that Dean looked up when she didn’t comment. There was a new expression on her face that looked uncomfortably like pity.

Her voice was soft. “I did not realize that Lord Castiel and Master Inias served the Warlord together.”

Meg scoffed quietly, but Dean didn’t have the energy to rise to the bait. He looked toward the courtyard instead, avoiding the spectrum of looks being aimed at him. Cas breathed slowly between them, and no one added further comment.

人間

The day stretched and the heat in their makeshift sickroom simmered as the sun rose high overhead. With Dean now conscious and Rachel keeping a shared watch while fielding any possible interlopers, Sam had a chance to sleep. Meg also couldn’t help but doze off again as the stress and worry eventually overwhelmed her. The chance of her doing damage now with so many eyes on her was minimal.

Dean ate the mild meal that Rachel gave him, though it was perfunctory and intended for little more than keeping his strength up in his recovery.

Castiel’s condition remained unchanged as the sun began its descent and they approached a full day of his condition. The group was tense as the unspoken truth floated among them: none of the victims had survived for more than two days after being asleep. If he didn’t wake up before the following night, he probably wasn’t going to. Looking at him so still in coma-like sleep, it was of little comfort that the specifics of his attack were different than the others before him. Castiel had been awake when Meg came for him, unlike the other five people, and Castiel was the subject of all of Meg’s anger and jealousy, rather than an aggravator. Whether any of that spelled hope for Castiel was a hope that Dean would be naïve to cling to.

Rachel moved about the room to light the evening lanterns and set the room for dinner for the four of them. Meg seemed to busy herself with a sewing project on a coat that looked suspiciously like something only Castiel would wear. Sam began to snuffle in the first stages of waking. Castiel slept.

Dean’s eyes skipped over Castiel’s handsome face ruefully. It was inevitable that everything he did now was under scrutiny; every time he touched Castiel’s face, squeezed his hand, adjusted his blanket. He knew what Rachel – what Sam thought, what Meg seemed furious about. They were looking at him like the heartsick lover. The horrible part, the part that made Dean want to get up and storm away, put the Farlands behind him as surely as he could not move, was that they were right.

Wasn’t this why he never got attached to the people he spent the night with? Hadn’t every relationship before gone up in flames? Whether it was his avoidance of commitment, or the hazards of his occupation, people were hard-pressed to stick by him for very long, and it was not their faults. The only common link in Dean’s failed relationships was Dean, and he thought he’d had that ironed out, accepted. And then Castiel.

Castiel was as skilled with a sword as he was awkward around his peers. He would just as soon behead a monster as he would mend a bird’s broken wing. He would go without opulence to make sure families that lived a hundred miles away would not go hungry in the winter. Castiel, who didn’t know that he was handsome or charming, might die tomorrow and leave Dean like all the others. Dean was sick with the certainty that it would leave a chasm bigger than any before.

When Rachel took Meg and excused them to procure dinner and attend to more of their duties, Sam sat up, bleary eyed. Rachel had nodded along unquestioning when Dean intimated that Meg could not be left alone and should be watched by one of them at all times. Sam was quiet as he gathered his wits and jogged himself awake.

Sam cleared his throat and Dean drew a steadying breath.

“No change?”

“It look like it?”

Dean could see Sam shift out of the corner of his eye. “Dean, look... I know that you’re—“

Dean snapped at him. “What do you know, Sammy? That he’s good as dead, that he’s gonna recover with true love’s kiss? What? Did you have a vision during your beauty nap?”

Sam bristled. “Listen, don’t get bitchy with me. I _know_ that you’re upset, that you guys are serious. I just...”

“What?”

Sam huffed, shaking his head. “I don’t know. Nothing, nevermind.”

They were quiet again for a while, until Sam chuckled. “You might try that true love’s kiss thing, though. You never know.”

Dean worked hard to keep himself from smiling in response. “Yeah, right.”

Eventually Rachel and Meg returned with food, setting their trays down on the table near the south wall. Dean watched them in a trance, thinking about how they’d sat there only the day before, egging Sam on. Rachel gestured for them to come and take their meal, and Sam clambered to his feet. Dean was slow to move, and Meg was quick to snipe at him.

“Let’s go Mr. Dreamy; I don’t think your handholding is the panacea we’re looking for.”

Dean felt like he could probably flip the table on her at that moment.

“You’re one to talk seeing as how _you did this_.”

Meg’s hands clenched at her side. “I would _never_ hurt him on purpose.”

“No, only in your subconscious when you don’t get your way with him—“

“Watch your mouth, you filthy—“

“Oh so the sandals are off then—“

“Dean, knock it off! This won’t—“

“Come over here and say—“

“Dean.”

All at once everyone stopped, breaths held. Dean looked down at Castiel; his hand had tightened on the other man’s during his shouting match with Meg, and now that he was no longer distracted, he could feel the weak pressure the other exerted on his hand.

Castiel’s eyes were drooping, dull with fatigue, but open.

Meg fell to her knees with a cry, finding Castiel’s other hand and squeezing it, bringing it to her lips and pressing a worshipful kiss to his knuckles. Castiel turned his eyes to her and smiled weakly.

“Meg.”

His servant smiled tremulously, exhaling against the back of his hands. Dean felt the petty urge to snatch Castiel’s hand away.

“You had us worried, Clarence.”

Castiel’s lips turned up in a smile before stopping abruptly. They settled into a moue, and Dean would bet money that he was recalling what had happened. The grip on Dean’s hand tightened and Dean felt smug reassurance as he used his other hand to smooth out the hair stuck to his forehead with newly dewing sweat.

Now Castiel looked back to him, his expression smoothing out into something fonder, plain relief in his blue eyes. Dean squeezed his hand in return.

“How about we not do this again, handsome?”

Castiel opened his mouth again, but Rachel swooped in, sensible as always.

“My lord must be feeling weak. He hasn’t eaten in nearly a day; he needs sustenance to build up his strength.”

Sam followed on the tail end of her declaration, playing along. “We _all_ need to eat. Then perhaps we can decide what to do next, if Cas is feeling well enough.”

Dean grinned at Castiel’s disorientation as his servant essentially handed down her orders; even if Castiel wasn’t feeling well, at least he was alive. If no one else had been in the room, Dean was certain he would have already kissed him thoroughly by now. As he helped Castiel sit up, the knowing look on his tired face told Dean that his thoughts were probably obvious – and reciprocated.

Maybe he’d get the chance yet.

人間

With Castiel awake, their meal was far less tense, though the group of five was quiet with expectation. With the strong possibility that Castiel would be all right, there were far fewer long-term concerns, but the matter of getting the entire story out of Meg and leveling some kind of judgment against her remained unfinished, and Castiel feared that he would be the only one with the authority to do so.

When Rachel cleared away their dishes and piled everything into a neat double-stacked tray, Meg, Sam and Dean immediately began to fuss over him. Despite the fact that he had just slept for nearly 24 hours, they maintained that he needed his rest, that anything that needed deciding did not outweigh his health in importance.

Castiel would have liked to use the excuse to avoid what needed to be done, but if sleep was the trigger to Meg hurting people, then he could not let another night pass without answers.

Everybody seemed to vibrate with restless activity, and finally Rachel suggested lightly that they use the meeting room across the hall as a change in scenery that would still be fairly private. Rachel could stand in the front hall on the off-chance that anybody would return to the North Wing that evening.

When they resituated themselves in the meeting room, with Castiel sitting on a plush cushion with a rigid seatback behind him, there could be no more delaying the issue. Sam and Dean sat to either side of him, halfway between his place and Meg’s. In this secret, informal tribunal, nobody could sit in a higher position of power than Castiel, even if he was loath to levy any harsh sentencing against his faithful servant.

Once Rachel saw herself out, Sam cleared his throat, and Castiel drew a deep breath. He saw Dean tense out of the corner of his eye, and a glance at the man almost made him smile; he was nearly fidgeting, and looked ready to dive to Castiel’s side judging by the concerned set of his brow; it was sweet, despite the morose circumstances.

Sam cleared his throat again, and looked to Castiel, quirking a brow.

To business, then.

“Meg, I want you to know that I do not bring you here to sentence you to harm or punitive action. My hope is that we can establish the truth of what has been happening, and come to a solution about how to stop it. You have been true and loyal to me, and I would be loath to forget that.”

Meg smiled at him, wry. She bowed her head respectfully.

Castiel glanced to the side. “Sam?”

The younger Winchester bobbed his head in a single nod. “We know the way that living ghosts function. We didn’t realize it’s what we were dealing with because we’ve never encountered one before. There’s enough precedent in the lore for us to confirm that Meg was the source of the sleeping sickness that befell the seven of you. At this point, all we can hope to learn is _how_ the seven of you became the targets of her subconscious.”

The servant snorted, her curly hair bouncing as she tossed her head. “Oh you _know_ do you. Pretty convenient to be pinning this all on little ‘ole me.”

The lord’s shoulders hunched, his rebuttal almost regretful. “I saw you Meg, with my own eyes. You chased me down the hall, only it wasn’t you. It looked like a ghost of you, just like they described.”

Meg’s eyes widened, less obstinate in the face of Castiel’s testimony.

Castiel nodded to Meg, expectant. “Well then?”

Meg looked defensive once more, and it hurt Castiel to see her so on guard. Meg had always been his champion, protective of him against her antagonistic superiors. It seemed unfair that he must punish her.

Then again, she had turned her ire on himself and Dean, so how sure of her loyalty could he truly be?

Meg’s glance darted between them, frowning. “What do you want me to say?”

Sam said, “Well, how did you feel about the five people that died?”

Castiel intoned quietly. “Their names were April, Muriel, Puriah, Naomi, and Zachariah. Let us show them that much respect.”

Meg bristled. “Why does it matter how I felt?”

“Oh answer the damn question.” Dean’s tone was harsh, and Castiel looked at him beseechingly, praying that he would hold back his ire. Sam seemed of similar mind, though he had no problem in telling his brother to _shut up, Dean._

Sam spoke. “Living ghosts are motivated by jealousy or rage. The feeling must be powerful. Is that how you felt about them?”

The servant frowned at her lap, brow pinched. “Yes.”

There was a pause. Sam cleared his throat. “Can you elaborate?”

Meg glared at him and Castiel sighed. His voice was quiet when he addressed her. “Meg, please. We just want the truth.”

Meg turned her eyes to him now, riled but so, so sad. “April, she wanted to ply you with wine until you were so drunk that she could crawl into your bed. It was disgusting; she never did it but I wouldn’t have let her, and she knew it. Muriel, I could tell she was trying to worm her way into your good graces, the harlot. She would have tried to take advantage of you.”

Castiel felt despair bloom in his chest. April and Muriel had been wonderful women; it was evident that Meg did not know about the night that he and April had shared. It was just as Meg had described, and Castiel had known better than to let it happen again. But Muriel, she had been a good, pure soul. Castiel was positive that she could not have done the things Meg accused her of, making Meg’s bitter jealousy all the more plain.

“And really, what do I need to say about the other three? They would have been happy to see you tossed out, destitute, stripped of your rank. They didn’t deserve to serve you.”

Sam hummed in ascent, sparing Castiel the need to speak. “That just leaves Castiel... you attacked him too. And Dean.”

Meg’s cheeks flushed now, her vitriol spilling across her face in a sneer. “I told you, I would never have hurt my Lord on purpose.”

“But something made you upset enough that you did, unintentionally.”

Meg would not meet his gaze. She seemed to clam up, refusing to speak what was clearly on her mind.

Castiel leaned in. “Meg? How have I upset you?”

Meg’s head snapped up, and for a moment she looked so despondent that Castiel wanted to crawl across the space and hug her.

“I heard you, with _him_.”

Dean’s brow furrowed and then comprehension seemed to dawn across his features, followed by anger. “You were in the hall. I knew I heard someone. It was you?”

Meg looked away, stolid.

“And you tried to _kill_ him because, what? He wanted to fuck me instead of you?”

Sam hissed. “Dean, good god!”

“Yes!” Meg shouted, her voice so loud that it stunned the whole room. “Is that what you wanted? _Yes_ , my _soul_ was so jealous that I guess I just tried to put myself out of my misery by getting rid of the source of it!”

Dean was getting to his feet, Meg flinching away like she was prepared to evade his attack, but Castiel slammed his hand to the floor, barking, “Enough!”

Everyone looked to him, but Castiel felt himself withering at the words he needed to say; truly there was only one thing to be done.

“Thank you Meg, for being honest. Sam, what would you suggest?” He pointedly did not look at Dean, sure that his solution would be far less diplomatic. He heard his headstrong lover mutter under his breath, confirming the theory.

Sam replied uneasily. “It would be best for all involved if Meg were to... find employment elsewhere. Away. From you, Cas.”

Meg squawked, “What? Can’t you just, I don’t know, cure me?”

“If there is a cure, no one has written of it, and I would not know where to begin. If we banished your spirit while it was separate from you, it’s likely you would die.”

Meg gasped, and the reality of her sentence seemed to crash down around her. Her eyes grew bright, though she blinked them away; Castiel’s heart felt torn in two. For a moment, it seemed like Meg would argue the point, but the seconds passed and she composed herself until the only evidence of her distress was the stubbornly lingering shine of her dark eyes.

Castiel said quietly, “I’m sorry Meg. If there was another way...”

Meg shook her head curtly. “I understand.”

The mystery was solved, the “murderer” caught, but Castiel felt no relief.

***

Meg had no family that she would tell the men about, but it seemed that once Castiel had dismissed her, she refused to accept any offer of help Castiel tried to give her. With the exception of a bag of coin that Castiel asked Rachel to slip into Meg’s belongings, Meg took nothing from the estate except for her own scarce belongings.

Castiel did his best to keep a dignified air as they walked with Meg through the ink of night to the gate. The sleepy guards did not notice them until they were standing beneath the guard’s station, and even then, Castiel instructed them to return to their posts and pay them no mind. Rachel whispered quietly to Meg and then embraced her, much to Meg’s visible surprise. In the end, she returned the embrace and her face crumpled for the briefest moment. When Castiel looked away, it was to breathe in the scent of Dean’s skin where he stood with an arm braced behind Castiel (because as Dean insisted, Castiel really ought to have been back in bed by now).

Meg seemed just as happy to say nothing to them; she gave a stoic nod as Rachel opened the man-sized doorway in the gate wall. Castiel’s chest constricted as she turned her back to them, and he had to fight the inclination to call her back, tell her all was forgiven. If that would have been enough, he would have happily pardoned her, but as long as she loved him and could not have him, she would hurt people; for that, Castiel had no solution.

As she stepped past the threshold of the gate, Castiel held back a grunt that was probably a sob. He called out, just loud enough for Meg to hear.

“Be safe, and take care Meg.”

She stopped, tossing a glance over her shoulder. She looked barely held together, but when her eyes met Castiel’s, the most visible emotion was love.

“Take no prisoners, Clarence.”

The old nickname, one she’d bestowed upon him because he reminded her of a character from an old, beloved book, brought tears to Castiel’s eyes. He felt one escape, streaking down his cheek before he swiped it away hastily. A moment later he felt a hand close around his shoulder and a sturdy kiss pressed into his temple.

The moment Rachel leaned in to pull the gate closed, Castiel turned on his heel and pressed his face into Dean’s shoulder, breathing hard to stave off his tears. He was not going to lose his composure now, when he’d survived everything that had come before.

Dean held him, his grip firm, and pressed another kiss to his head, quiet. Another hand patted against Castiel’s back, and he was sure it was Sam lending his own comfort.

Quietly, he felt Dean speak against his temple. “You all right?”

Castiel breathed.

Then he lifted his face just enough to be heard clearly. “I think I’d like to retire for the night, now.”

Dean exhaled, chuckled and squeezed him tight.

人間

The news of Meg’s departure and culpability did not fully come to light until two days later, when all of the staff and officials had returned from their weekend’s respite. For once, it was thanks to Ephraim’s proclivity for bunkering down in a Foca City brothel until weekend’s final hours that gave them a day’s worth of time to recover and align their stories.

Castiel was still weak when he woke the next morning, a dull ache sweeping from his neck to his feet. Dean seemed confident that all he needed was time to recover – time, some good food and better loving. He delivered the last efficiently with his hands and mouth not ten minutes after Castiel woke.

Of the compound’s entire staff, Rachel was the only person who knew the truth of what had happened. Out of concern for her wellbeing, Castiel insisted that her involvement be as downplayed as possible, to protect her from Metatron’s scheming. Even if those who had been loyal to Zachariah were now forced to choose new loyalties, Metatron might still persuade enough people to his camp to be a thorough pain in Castiel’s side. Castiel’s hope now was that the person to replace him would be much easier to work with. He had not met Balthazar at High Court, but rumor had it that he was an amusing man.

When Castiel sat down with Metatron, Bartholomew, Ephraim and Inias, he recounted the full events in as much detail as was prudent and necessary to keep his councilmen satisfied. This apparently included confirming his and Dean’s newly budding relationship. Oddly, the news didn’t bother anyone; apparently it was in everyone’s interest (or lack of concern thereof) if Castiel didn’t produce heirs that could be promoted to take over his station in the Farlands one day.

While it was a relief to finally be done with the great matter of the Headhunter and the Eidolon, Castiel still felt the sting of regret at the lives he’d lost to slow action – if he’d called for the Winchesters sooner, fewer men and women might be dead now.

On the morning after he’d spoken with the council, now busied with preparing to welcome a new member, Castiel woke slowly in Dean’s arms when the light of dawn had only just touched down over the estate. Dean slept on, but Castiel didn’t mind; being in bed with Dean made Castiel feel safe, even from his own ponderings. That was why, when Dean woke, it didn’t sting so much when Castiel mentioned Meg.

With Dean nuzzling against his cheek, Castiel’s rough voice broke the silence of the morning.

“What were the chances that Meg started hurting people at the same time that there was a monster using the grounds for hunting?”

Dean stopped his hypnotic movement, and was quiet for a moment; the silence was thoughtful.

Then he spoke, voice rough with sleep. “She probably started hurting people because her subconscious was afraid you would be the next one killed.”

Castiel felt his eyes burn and he blinked quickly. “The burning smell, it was in my room the night I saw the Headhunter outside.”

Dean was quiet. Castiel drew a shaky breath.

“Why was she there?”

Castiel felt Dean press a gentle, wet kiss to his cheek. “I don’t know, sweetheart. Maybe her spirit was there to protect you.”

Dean held him tight when Castiel pressed himself into Dean’s torso.

By midweek, Castiel was feeling back to normal health and Sam declared that he and his brother needed to return to the nearest Hunter network tavern to check for messages; Dean was reluctantly in agreement. Castiel’s fears were assuaged however, as both Sam and Dean confirmed that they could return as soon as the case was closed, if there were any. In bed, Dean alluded to spreading the information that the Winchesters might be more easily reached if word was sent to the lord’s estate in the Farlands. The suggestion warmed Castiel to the core and made him giddy enough to pounce his lover. They didn’t speak after that.

Almost a week after Meg had nearly killed Castiel, the Winchesters prepared to depart for Foca City. While Castiel assured them that there would always be a bed and a meal without cost for them at the compound, he understood; he would not have been quick to leave his own responsibilities if asked. He loved his vocation, and he knew that the Winchesters loved theirs. Their promise to return would need to be enough to placate him.

The sun was not yet beating down its brutal late summer tattoo when Sam and Dean donned their riding clothes. Saint that he was, Sam declared that he was going to head to the front to check that the horses were properly saddled and would wait for them there. Castiel smiled though his face still warmed with embarrassment; Dean smirked.

When Sam had left with his things, Castiel helped Dean put the last of his own into his travel satchel, including the fresh supply of whiskey that Castiel had saved for him. That got Castiel a very pleasant kiss of gratitude, and Castiel was glad to wind his arms around Dean’s torso inside his untied tunic.

When Castiel pulled away, he stopped Dean’s mouth from trailing his with a gentle hand. For the briefest moment, they simply grinned at each other, and Castiel let out a frustrated, but pleased, sigh as he dropped his head against Dean’s chin.

“Now listen; if you have time, please send me word when you arrive at your destination.”

Dean snorted, pinching Castiel’s side. The lord yelped, stifling his unseemly giggles.

“I assure you, I’m serious Dean.”

Dean’s eyes crinkled, lips quirked up in a fond smile. He pressed a kiss to Castiel’s forehead. “Yes, dear. Anything else?”

Castiel made a point to look overly thoughtful while he tied Dean’s tunic closed for him, which drew another beloved chuckle from the man before him.

“Make sure to practice safe copulation and no killing monsters after bedtime.”

The guffaw that burst from Dean’s chest made Castiel smile so widely that he felt his cheeks ache. Then Dean wrapped him up in a tight hug, pressed humored kisses into Castiel’s cheek and temple again and again.

Then Dean lowered his voice to a murmur, as though someone else were there to hear him. “I don’t know if the supernatural is going to honor an effort for a good night’s sleep, but I can promise you...” Then he drew back and pressed their foreheads together, nose brushing against Castiel’s; the lord felt his heart nearly burst. “The next time someone warms my bed, it’ll be you. It will only ever be you.”

Castiel hummed as he brought his hands up to cup Dean’s face, ghosting a kiss across Dean’s lips.

He hadn’t truly been worried.

“Good.”


	4. Epilogue

Adina had been put in charge of the food for the afternoon’s cherry blossom viewing entourage. While the party was very small (after all, Bartholomew had opted not to come and Balthazar had declared that while flowers were _ephemeral and breathtaking, so are the young ladies, my lord_ ), Hannah was a stickler for covering all the bases and following the book to the letter. Of course, she didn’t find it necessary to compromise people’s happiness over it, unlike her predecessor.

The new matron was currently distributing the tea that they’d prepared in their small tent positioned at the rear of the lovely pavilion tent that had been prepared for the lord’s house and other dignitaries in the area. As the blossoms came first to the south of the archipelago, some of the lords from the northern territories had traveled south to follow the blooms back north in their yearly sabbatical. With the servants of the northern houses sharing their mess tent, quarters were cramped. Fortunately, everyone was polite.

“Mommy!”

Adina glanced down where there was tugging at her skirts. Four-year-old Hael stood at her feet, looking up at her mother earnestly. Adina smiled and stepped away from her small work station where she was putting together the lunch sets for her lord’s house. All but the pickled plums were prepared and set out on the beautifully lacquered trays, and she deemed it good enough to step away to keep her daughter from being trampled underfoot.

Adina hunched over to pick up her daughter who immediately clung to her mother, a tiny brunette limpet.   She resembled her mother strongly, save for her eyes and hair– in them she mirrored her father Daniel, who’d stayed behind at the estate to work as lead groundskeeper while the lord was away.

“Yes, little one?”

Hael chewed on her lip, thoughtful in that way that small children often found themselves.

“Is Uncle Castiel a prince?”

Adina smiled, petting her daughter’s hair back as she carried her from the tent. She passed Hester on the way, and informed her that the trays would be ready if she could finish adding the pickled plum. The other blonde nodded and tucked a flyaway strand of Hael’s hair back for her before disappearing inside.

Adina carried Hael out from behind the pavilion tent until the beautiful copse of cherry blossom trees and its audience were visible.

“Lord Castiel is the lord of our realm, little one. There is only one prince, and he lives very far away.”

Hael looked mostly mystified by this explanation.

“But Uncle Castiel is like Prince Ren!”

Adina chuckled. “Is he really?”

Hael nodded, authoritative and serious. “Yes, and Master Dean is like his Princess Rasa.”

Adina sealed her lips shut to avoid laughing at the image of Master Dean dressed in silk skirts. Something told her he wouldn’t appreciate the suggestion very much, aside from the fact that he only had praise for Hael; the Huntere always seemed pleased when the little girl followed him around, chattering away.

It had been more than four years since the attacks of the Headhunter and Meg; the story of the monster and woman’s rash of murders had spread far and wide until eventually even the Warlord himself had sent a missive to Lord Castiel requesting a personal audience to explain the matter first hand. No one at the lord’s estate was surprised when, on the morning of his scheduled departure, the Winchesters appeared to escort Lord Castiel north to Warlord Michael’s domain.

Masters Sam and Dean had become an almost permanent fixture of the compound, coming and going as surely as the sun rose and set. Master Dean stayed for longer stretches of time than his brother, though he would periodically set out to help his sibling clear away the supernatural in other parts of the Farlands and even the southern reaches of Lord Malachi’s domain.

“But Master Dean is a mighty warrior, don’t you think?”

Hael frowned, clearly distressed that her theory was not as accurate as she’d surmised.

Adina’s eyes swept over the groups of seated flower viewing patrons, landing finally on the loose gathering sitting away from all the rest. There were roughly ten people, members of the house council and attendants, Sam Winchester and Kevin the archivist. Set apart from them were two more figures, one of them reclined under the trees; Adina smiled at the smitten pair of her lord and the elder Winchester.

The couple sat at enough distance from the rest of the house to give the illusion of privacy, where hushed words would not carry to any other ears. Lord Castiel sat at the base of one of the fecund trees, weeping pink petals with every soft breeze. Master Dean was beside him, though he was reclined. Adina couldn’t tell from this distance, but the Hunter’s head was probably pillowed on his lover’s thigh, a position she’d more than once discovered them in.

Lord Castiel and Master Dean had been a staple of the lord’s house for more than half of Lord Castiel’s time in power now, and Adina was sure they would remain as such until Lord Castiel stepped down; if she was fortunate enough to follow him in service even then, she expected that the two would still be together. The house seemed happier for it, even if it did mean occasionally having to hear the two of them in the middle of the night or the early morning (the pair were exceptionally awful at keeping quiet).

Adina hummed thoughtfully, drawing her daughter’s attention. “ _I_ think that Lord Castiel is more like great General Yotsun, and Master Dean is his Ben. What about that?”

Hael’s eyes were bright and inquisitive as she cocked her head; Adina had her suspicions that she’d picked up the habit from following around Lord Castiel. “Who are they?”

Adina’s voice lulled in that way that kept Hael enthralled when it was story time at night. “Well, General Yotsun was a handsome soldier that commanded the Emperor’s armies. One day, he met a travelling warrior named Ben and challenged him to a duel. Ben lost, and right there, he swore his love and loyalty to the General Yotsun and traveled all the land with him, fighting by his side and protecting him. They spent the rest of their lives at each other’s sides.”

Hael put one bent finger to her mouth like she was mulling over the suggestion. She bobbed her head and hummed, drawing a chuckle from her mother.

Then Hael gave a single curt nod. “Yes that does sound very much like Uncle Castiel and Master Dean.”

Adina glanced once more at the distant figures of her lord and his lover, huddled together beneath the cherry blossoms. She heard Hester call to her from the tent, asking for help in carrying down the trays of food. She tore her eyes away from the two men and pressed a kiss to her daughter’s cheek.

“I think so too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading!


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